


A Place Like Tomorrow

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-War, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-01
Updated: 2009-07-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 15:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Sanity is a very thin tightrope; Ron only discovers this once he's taken several steps.





	A Place Like Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
> **Author's notes:**
> 
> Written for the inaugural rd_challenge at LJ. In the angst category, I was judged on the use of this prompt within the context of the story:
> 
> "I know what it's like to want to die. How it hurts to smile.  
> How you try to fit in but you can't.  
> How you hurt yourself on the outside to try to kill the thing on the inside."  
> \- Girl Interrupted 

  
Author's notes: Huge thanks to Callum and Wolfie for their betas and insights into this story.  


* * *

**A Place Like Tomorrow**

 

"Nnnnngh. Ow," Ron groaned as he drifted into consciousness against his will. It took concentration to force his crusty eyelids open. The exertion of focussing made the throbbing of his forehead even worse.  
  
"Fucking Seamus," he mumbled, easing an arm up over his eyes. "Shouldna kept pouring me those damn shots."  
  
He moved his arm, looking around blearily, thereby establishing that he'd not made it to the bedroom; he'd spent the night on the couch. His usual night time companion wouldn't have missed him as he was out of town at a business meeting. That was the only reason Ron had decided to go out and get totally shit-faced in the first place, because Draco wouldn't be there to complain, harangue, or generally give him grief the next day. He wasn't gone all that often, so the percentage of mornings Ron woke up hung over had decreased dramatically from when he had been living alone. It also meant Ron couldn't ask Draco to find the hangover potion, so he'd have to get up and go searching for it. That, or find his wand and hope that even performing something as basic as an Accio spell didn't burst a blood vessel or cause the dwarves banging away in his head to pick up their pace. He decided it was worth the risk.  
  
Half an hour later he felt vastly improved. The hangover potion, brewed by Draco and sublimely effective, had worked its magic. He'd taken a hot shower, and was thinking about cooking a nice greasy breakfast.  
  
"Ron? Ron!" he heard coming from the next room. It was Harry's voice, so Ron knew he was firecalling him. He loped into the living room where, sure enough, Harry's voice came faintly from the burned out embers of the last fire he'd had going.  
  
"Just a mo!" Ron called, pulling out his wand and casting an _Incendio_. Once the flames leaped brightly, Harry's face clearly hovered in the fireplace.  
  
"Hey, Ron," Harry said cheerfully. "How're you feeling?"  
  
"Mostly recovered. On the hungry side."  
  
"Well, you were completely trolleyed last night."  
  
"I know, I know," Ron groused. Something loomed suddenly out of the corner of his eye and he jerked his head to the side. All he saw was a clock on the shelf that had been there since Ron had moved in. Swearing under his breath about seeing things, he looked back at Harry, who gave him a queer look.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Yeah, fine. Just thought I saw something. It was just the clock. So what's on for today?"  
  
"Not much. Thought I might take James to London Zoo. You want to see if Percy will let you have Xavier for part of the day and join us? Looks like the weather'll be brilliant."  
  
Ron pondered the opportunity. "Sure! I'll owl him and firecall you back."  
  
"Thanks! When does Draco get back?"  
  
"Late this afternoon."  
  
Happiness flared in his chest; he and Draco had only been living together for ten months or so, but their often-tempestuous relationship had been going on for over two years. For all his good-humoured bitching about his imperious lover, Ron's affection for him pulsed with the same heated constancy as his own heartbeat.  
  
"Where'd he go this time?"  
  
"Nowhere that he'd bring back a gift for James, at least not one that's appropriate for a three year old. The goblins sent him to Amsterdam."  
  
Harry's mouth, lit an odd orange colour thanks to the fire, quirked to the side. "You never know. Draco's not how I thought he'd be all grown up. Well, I'll quit yammering and go look for more coffee. Firecall me after you get in touch with Percy, right?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
Ron got up, his knees creaking. He needed some more coffee as well. Once again, he jerked his head toward the counter. A face seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, looking at him.  
  
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, his pulse racing. "Stupid bloody clock. Quit looking at me!"  
  
Irritated with himself, and deciding he was jumpy because he was alone in the house, he turned on the wireless to a station that occasionally played decent songs. He walked into the small study and found a quill of Draco's with an uncracked nib and scrawled a quick note to Percy about taking his son to the zoo. After rolling up the parchment with a bit of twine, he went back to the kitchen and opened a window near the sink.  
  
"Oy! Pig! C'mere!" he shouted toward the small roost where Draco's and his owls took up residence. The animated bird came swooping to him, chittering and nipping playfully at his shaggy hair. "Hey, stop that," he grumbled with a smile, putting out his elbow for the owl to hop down and perch on him. "Take this to Percy. He should reply right away, so come right back."  
  
The note tied securely, he raised his arm and with a cheery hoot, the owl flew off. Ron had just finished his second cup of coffee, grumbling over the Cannons' most recent disaster on the pitch, when Pigwidgeon returned.  
  
_I'll bring Xavier over in a half hour,_ Percy's tidy reply read. _Nice day for it-- I assume you're going with Harry and James. Thanks for offering. See you shortly. --P_  
  
"Thanks, Pig," Ron said, scratching the owl's downy head. "Let me get you a treat then you can do whatever it is you do all day with Gabriel."  
  
He rooted around the owl treats tin, Pigwidgeon hooting excitedly. "You're in luck! There're two left." He offered the treats on his open palm. "Guess I need to put that on a shopping list."  
  
After a hasty affirmative firecall back to Harry, Ron shooed his owl back out through the door to their back deck. The air was crisp, bright and tart with autumn. Overhead the interwoven clouds were unravelling to reveal a hard blue sky behind them. He took a deep breath, pressing his hands down into his jeans pockets as his lungs filled with air warmed by the sun. It really did look to be a beautiful day, weather wise. A dark movement out of the corner of his eye instinctively caused him to pivot on his foot, his arm lashing out rather uselessly since his wand was inside on the dining room table. Once again, there was nothing there; his peripheral vision seemed to have been taken over by phantom images, and it was beginning to piss him off.  
  
"I'm never having that fucking vodka again!" he swore, wishing his heart would slow down from its rushed thumping. It was definitely for the best that Draco wasn't around. Merlin knew he'd have no shortage of things to say about Ron's hangover-induced phantasms lurking off in the edges of unsight. Still grumbling under his breath, he went back into the house and turned up the wireless. He walked to their bathroom to pull his hair back into a ponytail.  
  
A commanding, young voice yelling, "Uncle Ron! Where are you?" drew Ron away from the unrewarding task of picking at a blemish he'd noticed on his jaw.  
  
"Coming, Xave!"  
  
Percy and Xavier were in the living room, dusting ash off of their clothes. Percy's expression was an amusing mix of grateful and pained. Ron was certain he didn't mind the unexpected free time from parenting, but a long time ago he'd made his thoughts about Ron's sexuality very clear. His discomfort was palpable, though he obviously continued to feel the need to pretend he had no issue with Ron living with another Wizard.  
  
"Arrrrrrrrrrr, c'mere you wiggle worm!" Ron said gleefully, tickling his nephew as he laughed and squirmed on the floor. "I'll just side-along him back to your place in a few hours, if that suits?"  
  
Percy nodded, rubbing at the bridge of his nose under his glasses. "Fine, fine." His gaze flitted about, a furrow marring his forehead. "Where's Malfoy?"  
  
"Business trip. Amsterdam." Ron swung Xavier around one more time before planting his feet firmly on the plush carpet. "Back early evening. We should get him something from the zoo, shouldn't we?" he asked Xavier who nodded his head with such enthusiasm his auburn hair fell even more into his eyes.  
  
"A dragon!" Xavier squealed triumphantly, before his face fell. "I want to see Uncle Charlie's dragons, but daddy says it's too far, and too dangerous," he pouted.  
  
"It _is_ too far and too dangerous," Ron affirmed, standing straight and taking his nephew's hand. Percy gave him a relieved wisp of a smile. "At least for now. Maybe when you're older."  
  
"Xavier, give daddy a hug. Please behave, and don't forget this is a Muggle zoo. The signs won't move, and the animals are in cages. Big cages, and you'll be safe, but--"  
  
"Don't worry," Ron interrupted, earning a scowl. "Just be yourself. It'll be you and me and Harry and James. We'll have a grand time. See you after, Percy."  
  
"All right."  
  
Percy half-knelt to give his son a hug, then stood up, eyeing the mantle for Floo powder. He took a handful, threw it into the fireplace and said clearly, "Larchdown," vanishing in a puff of green flame.  
  
"Well!" Ron enthused. "Let's go! The animals are waiting."  
  
Xavier's face brimmed with excitement, and he gripped Ron's hand. "Will Harry talk to the snakes again?"  
  
Ron took a hasty evaluative look around the room, making sure he'd not left anything on or alight, and aimed his wand at the doors to lock them.  
  
"Only if we're lucky," he said with a wink.  
  
* * * * *  
  
There was only one thing missing to make Ron's tableau as close to perfect as he knew. His third bottle of Lagerhead Ale was in his hand, the newest copy of _Broom Enthusiast_ was in his lap, the fire crackled cheerily, and even their crotchety cat Pandemonium was curled up in a warm ball at Ron's side. All he needed was for his lover to get his skinny arse back from his trip.  
  
As if on cue, Ron heard the front door open and watched as Pandemonium, suddenly alert, unfurled from her spot on the couch and went running to Draco.  
  
"Welcome back!" Ron called out as he shut his magazine and stood up. Draco's distinctive figure walked into the living room, still attired in dress robes, his black leather briefcase in hand. Pandemonium meowed at him, batting at his trousers leg.  
  
"Glad to be home."  
  
Ron let Draco place the briefcase near the couch before enfolding him in a hug. He pulled back just far enough to kiss Draco firmly on the mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. "Are you hungry?"  
  
"No. I had a filling supper before I portkeyed back to Gringott's. I'd love a drink, though." He placed a soft, answering kiss on Ron's lips and then stepped back, unbuttoning the top two buttons on his dress robes.  
  
"I got you something new-- seemed like something you'd fancy," Ron said hopefully, heading to the kitchen and returning with a glass and a bottle of viscous clear liquid with flakes of gold in it.  
  
"What on Merlin's green earth is that?" Draco asked, looking sceptical.  
  
"It's some Muggle liqueur, cinnamon flavoured. The chap at the bottle shop said it was good stuff. Smooth. I got it because of the bits of gold. They're digestible," he quickly added, unscrewing the top.  
  
"I'd hope so!" Draco exclaimed, glancing over at the nearby counter. "Are those new photographs?"  
  
"Yeah, Harry took them today. Percy brought Xave over and we went to the London Zoo with Harry and James."  
  
He handed Draco the tumbler, letting his fingers linger on Draco's as he did. A knowing smile flitted across Draco's mouth before he took a cautious sip.  
  
"Mmmmmm," he said, evaluating the taste. "Very interesting. Very cinnamony. Good choice! Thanks for getting it."  
  
"I thought you might want something to help you relax," Ron said, getting his ale bottle and gently clinking it to his lover's glass.  
  
"I have something else in mind," Draco murmured, raising an eyebrow.  
  
Ron's mouth quirked in a grin. "Good. Bed's been rather lonely the last several days."  
  
"Looks like you had fun today," Draco said as he inclined his head to the moving pictures.  
  
"It was brilliant," Ron gushed. "I nearly forgot! Xavier wanted to get you something from the zoo, a dragon stuffed animal, but they didn't have any. No dragons at Muggle zoos." He produced a small golden plush lion out of a gift shop bag. "He chose this instead."  
  
After Draco put the stack of photos back on the counter, he reached for the proffered lion, shaking his head with tolerant incredulity.  
  
"He's too young to understand the concept of irony, isn't he?"  
  
Ron snorted and took a pull on his ale. "His comment was that you have gold hair and the lion had gold hair, so you should have it."  
  
"My hair is certainly not gold," Draco said, indignant. "It's platinum blond, unless I haven't washed it in several days."  
  
"When did you ever-- oh, I'm sorry," Ron said, a flush creeping up his neck as he realised the awful gaffe he'd made.  
  
"You had nothing to do with it," Draco said. He took a mouthful of the liquor as though to wash away some of the bitterness of his parents' sudden deaths sixteen months after the Battle at Hogwarts. Ron didn't have details, but Draco had alluded and given enough hints that Ron knew he'd become reclusive for a time and hadn't taken care of himself.  
  
"I wish I could've helped you then." Ron stumbled helplessly over the words.  
  
"I'd have hexed you to the Founder's Age if you'd come anywhere near me back then. The present time is what matters; I can't bring them back."  
  
Ron stood awkwardly at Draco's side, picking at the label on his bottle with his thumb.  
  
"Here, let's go upstairs and we can do something to get my mind off the past." He shook his head bemusedly at the stuffed animal. "That Xavier's a Weasley through and through."  
  
"We're irresistible," Ron said, playfully squeezing one of Draco's arsecheeks through his robes and trousers.  
  
"Irresistible once you get past irritating, confrontational, and wilfully ignorant about the obvious," Draco drawled. "You are, anyway. None of your siblings are at all appealing." He turned toward Ron so his pelvis rocked slowly against Ron's thigh.  
  
"Well, I'm glad for the last part of what you said, but if you keep talking like that, the only relief you'll get tonight is from your own hand!" Ron said, mostly joking.  
  
"I can be pretty persuasive." Draco leaned in, perching the lion on Ron's shoulder and breathing hotly into Ron's ear.  
  
Ron could smell the cinnamon; kissing Draco would be an especially tasty experience tonight. "Did you learn something new for us to try out on your trip?" he asked.  
  
It had become a long-standing joke whenever they were apart, that the other had gone on a wild sex spree. Draco especially had taken to the game, seriously researching a new position or a toy to try out, but he insisted he'd never actually done research with any blokes. Ron had no reason to think he was lying. He now looked forward with prurient impatience to the first night that Draco returned from being away and wondered what trick his lover would have up his sleeve.  
  
"Of course," Draco purred. He tossed the lion into a chair, followed quickly by a blur of black fur as their cat pounced.  
  
"Shite! Get off that, Pan!" Ron shouted, waving the cat away from what she'd thought was a toy for her. "Guess we'll need to keep this out of her reach."  
  
"You can be in charge of that. I'm going to the loo, then we're getting naked," Draco stated, unbuttoning more of his formal robes as he walked purposefully up the stairs.  
  
"Be right there!"  
  
After his own trip to the bathroom, Ron poured himself some of the Goldschlager and took their drinks upstairs. He dimmed the lights in the living room and had just started ascending the stairs when movement flickered out of the corner of his eye. He nearly lost his balance as he twisted his head to see what was there: it was his reflection in the crescent-shaped mirror hanging on the opposite wall.  
  
"Drinks must've caught the light," he said to himself, shaking his head in irritation. "I need a good night's sleep and then I'll quit seeing things."  
  
Draco had thoughtfully cast a heating charm on the room. He walked to the doorway of their bathroom, wiping at his face with a damp cloth as Ron entered, putting their glasses on the bedside table at Draco's side of the bed.  
  
"Strip down, gorgeous," Draco commanded as he sat down in an unattractive but sublimely comfortable chair. It was one of the few contributions Ron had made to their house. Draco untied and slid off his shoes and made short work of getting down to a pair of zebra print briefs as he continued, "I had plenty of buff men to ogle in Amsterdam, and only wanked once."  
  
"Awwwww," Ron said, trying to sound sympathetic as he pushed down his pants, jostling his half-hard cock to bump his thighs. "Sounds like somebody could use a nice long fuck."  
  
"I do love it when you grasp the obvious." Draco's voice was roughened with arousal. He got up and then perched on the end of the bed, legs spread wide, a growing erection nestled in--  
  
"You shaved!" Ron said before sinking reverently to his knees. With careful fingers, he reached toward the vee of his lover's groin, rolling the soft sacs against his palm. "Do you like how it feels? You weren't exactly super hairy before," he went on, pressing his nose to the smooth, musky skin at the base of his shaft.  
  
"I do," Draco said, the timbre of his voice low and mellow, a rich toffee sound. "I'd love to shave you. I watched these two guys on a stage in a club and it was so hot. Merlin, oh that's so good," he moaned as Ron began sucking the salty crown of his cock, using his hand to stroke the root to get him fully hard.  
  
At first Ron found it odd for there not to be any springy curls and soft fuzz at his fingertips as he worked his mouth up and down, licking and sucking Draco's shaft. He paused to flick the tip of his tongue at the slit, a thrill of lust sparking through him as Draco groaned, trying to thrust deeper into Ron's mouth. Ron pulled off and sat back on his heels, wiping at his lips, admiring the elegant architecture of Draco's features. Their angularity was softer somehow, offset by his heavy-lidded eyes.  
  
" _Accio_ lube," Ron said, keeping his gaze fixed on his lover's face.  
  
Draco gave him a heated stare, then backed up onto the bed. Ron stood up, pouring some of the oil on his palm and took a few leisurely strokes of his neglected erection before walking up the bed on his knees to join Draco. He shifted to lie on his back and Draco raised his eyebrows in question.  
  
"I did a cleansing spell, downstairs," Ron said. "My arse is all yours."  
  
"Words I love to hear."  
  
Draco straddled his waist, leaning down to place a searing, urgent kiss on Ron's mouth. Ron opened his lips, feasting on Draco's spicy tongue, anchoring his hands at the top of Draco's thighs. Then Draco scooted back, taking the unguent and liberally smearing it on his inspiring cock until it glistened. Ron planted his feet on the bed, taking himself in hand, avidly watching the look of concentration on Draco's face as he lined up to Ron's hole and pushed in. Neither of them were particularly chatty during sex, though a wordless epistolary of loving, filthy messages flowed between them. Possessive looks, branding kisses and Draco's relentless pounding into Ron's tight channel eventually brought Ron to his telltale plateau just before everything exploded and he soared from the precipice.  
  
"Fuck, Draco! Nnnnnngh," he groaned incoherently, milking his shaft as the warm fluid splattered on his stomach.  
  
Draco changed his angle, speeding up his pace, lost in his own sea of sensations.  
  
"Come for me," Ron said raggedly, rocking even harder against the snap of Draco's hips. "Feels so fucking good."  
  
About a dozen thrusts later, Draco's face transformed from a mask of concentration to one of open mouthed near-surprise. His hands gripped Ron's knees as he arched his back, his chest heaving, his cock buried in Ron's body.  
  
"Mrwar?" Pandemonium meowed, startling Ron out of his reverie of studying his lover's face, slack and glowing. The cat hopped up on the bed, daintily stepping past Draco's splayed legs to wander to the Molly-knitted throw that lay in an untidy pile.  
  
"That cat thinks she's supreme ruler of this house," Ron said sourly, wincing slightly as Draco pulled out of him.  
  
"That's because she is," Draco said, rolling his eyes as she lifted a back leg by her ear and began cleaning herself with a bright pink tongue. He slid down to Ron's side, reaching over him to the bedside table to retrieve his wand. After he cast a cleansing charm on them, Draco spooned against Ron's ribs, letting his fingers smooth across the dragon tattoo near Ron's left hip.  
  
"Have I told you recently how bloody stunning you are?" Draco asked, nuzzling against the stubble on Ron's jaw. "And how flattered I am that you got this?" His fingers tapped gently on the body art.  
  
"No, and yes," Ron said. Magnanimity pulsed in him as he rested, boneless and sated, his lover embraced in his arms. "I was determined to get fit, especially once I had someone to impress."  
  
"You're more than just fit. You're sculpted muscle, long and lean."  
  
"I could get a big head if you keep on saying things like that," Ron said, though the pleasure of being admired warmed him to the depths of his spirit. He _had_ worked hard to get in shape, to get some real muscle on his frame, and he thought he looked pretty good. Having Draco tell him he was attractive was no longer a novelty. That said, each time he was complimented it was like a swallow of firewhiskey, a potent and fast jolt to his system.  
  
"Mind if I have my drink?" he asked, and Draco shook his head. "You'll have to move a bit for me to reach it."  
  
Draco let out a dramatic sigh. "If you insist."  
  
They spent another quarter of an hour talking, primarily Draco filling Ron in about his trip and what he saw when not in banking meetings until Draco yawned, stretching elegantly as he did.  
  
"I've got to go to sleep," he said.  
  
"Same here," Ron agreed. He slid out of the warm bed to go and brush his teeth and take care of his nightly ablutions.  
  
Soon they were side by side under the covers, bidding each other good night. Ron shifted his feet and heard an annoyed, soft sound from the cat, who he'd obviously disturbed. With Draco back home, he went straight to sleep, though all night he had long, vague dreams about a catastrophic event. He found himself suddenly awake, his heart racing, panic fluttering around him like a cluster of moths.  
  
"Are you okay? What are you dreaming about?" Draco said in a voice thick with sleep. "You yelled something… woke me up."  
  
Ron thought about it, but the images were fading away. The feeling of heartbreaking loss and terror took longer to subside. "I don't know. It was awful, though."  
  
Draco's fingers drifted across Ron's forehead. "Just a dream. Go back to sleep."  
  
Ron tried to relax, breathing the faded but comfortable scent of the saffron and cedar cologne that Draco wore, but his mind was restless. Sleep, when it came again at last, was uneasy.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Horace, do you see why that move could be a frightfully bad idea?" Ron asked the student. The third year's rook hovered over the white square while his dark eyes flickered back and forth between the chessboard and Ron's face.  
  
"Um…"  
  
He focussed on the board, tawny eyebrows knitted together. Ron could nearly see the gears turning in the Hufflepuff's mind, jumping several potential moves ahead to figure out what Ron was seeing. At last, his face beamed.  
  
"Yeah! It'd end up leaving my king at risk if my opponent decides to sacrifice his castle." He was flushed with pride, and Ron was pleased for him.  
  
"That's right. So play what would be a better choice, and I'll write down where we left off. You're due at Herbology next, aren't you?"  
  
Horace nodded, scooting back away from the table after he'd placed the rook in a far superior strategic position. Ron waved good-bye to his budding chess master as he scribbled the most recent play on his parchment. It had surprised him at first how much he enjoyed having multiple roles at Hogwarts: Quidditch coach as well as chess club founder and mentor. He also helped George and Lee out at Wheeze's a couple of days a week, and he'd even been asked by the European Youth Wizarding Chess Federation to serve as a referee and instructor at a proposed international tournament. Really, things were going pretty well for him.  
  
He aimed his wand at the board and pieces which, after sending up tinny cries about having to go away, marched sulkily off to their respective boxes. The boxes shut and locked themselves, and Ron shelved the board and blew out the candles in the small office. He decided a quick trip to the Hogwarts kitchens to get a nosh was in order, but he needed to go by the loo first. After he'd taken care of business and was washing his hands, he glanced up into the mirror. A tall, dark-haired figure stood not far behind him. Startled, he turned around-- he could have sworn he was alone.  
  
No one was there.  
  
"Get it bloody together, mate!" he swore under his breath. He faced the sink again, and the young man was still there, not in Hogwarts robes, and mouthing something that looked a lot like Ron's name. Ron froze, his skin crawling and icicles running up and down his spine.  
  
"What the fuck?" he whispered harshly, gripping the cold sink, looking behind him once more for good measure. The boy's lavatory was empty. Back in the mirror, the youth was closer behind him, a melancholy smile on his lips. He looked as if he was going to speak again when the door banged open. A gaggle of very short boys came in, their animated conversations screeching to a halt when they saw Ron. He looked at them, then realised the water was still running, and he looked petrified. With shaking hands he turned off the taps, shouldered his bag and left, refusing eye contact with mirror and students alike.  
  
Twenty minutes later, he was scarfing down a roast beef sandwich, washing it down with pumpkin juice. Hogwarts was not a place to be unnerved by a ghost! He hadn't used that particular lavatory when he was a student himself, as it was near the Hufflepuff dungeons anyway. If he saw it again, he'd just ask the Head of Hufflepuff House who the spirit was. Doubtless he was like Myrtle or one of Merlin only knew how many spectres that haunted the castle and grounds.  
  
"Thanks, Flissy!" he called to the house-elf who'd made the sandwich for him.  
  
"Flissy enjoys making food that's appreciated," she said, her large head bobbing as she stroked one of her ears. "Ron Weasley should eat good food while he can."  
  
Ron's smile melted from his lips. "What?"  
  
The house-elf looked shocked, then frightened. "Flissy-- Flissy doesn't know why she said that!" she said in a tremulous voice, her eyes darting toward a drawer. "Those weren't Flissy's words!"  
  
Ron couldn't stand to watch her hurt herself, so he quickly said, "Don't worry! We all say things we don't mean. I promise I'll come back soon, but only if you _don't_ hurt yourself." The words were emphatic, and panic seemed to lessen its grip on her.  
  
Walking away from the kitchens, he decided that he was definitely going to have as normal a night as possible, with a couple of tumblers of Old Ogden's which would put him right out but not mess with his stomach… or his head. Cheered by that thought, he stopped by his office near the Gryffindor team's changing rooms, got his broom, and flew to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes.  
  
At a lull in the parade of mostly-young customers, Ron helped Lee restock a shelf of tongue-tying toffees.  
  
"You're a bit preoccupied," Lee commented as Ron neatly arranged the levitated boxes.  
  
"Am I?" Ron shrugged. "I guess I've just had a few weird things happen to me in the past week. No big deal."  
  
"What kind of weird things?"  
  
"No symbols in the sky, or anything exciting. I thought I was seeing things, but that was just a right awful hangover. And I saw a boy in the mirror at one of the Hogwarts bathrooms this morning. No doubt he's a regular, just like Moaning Myrtle."  
  
Lee gave him a sceptical look, but then his face relaxed into his usual amiable expression. "If you say so. Probably nothing, just like you said."  
  
"Yeah, I'm not superstitious, and it's not like I'm somebody who would capture the attention of anybody special."  
  
"Malfoy would take offence at that!" Lee said dryly, motioning for Ron to come down the ladder.  
  
"I meant anybody otherworldly, or some other rubbish," Ron said, now uncomfortable at having brought up the odd experiences he'd recently had. "Look, just drop it." He got to the bottom two rungs of the ladder and hopped off. "Are you and George going to the Leaky after you close?" he asked hopefully.  
  
"No-- there's that gallery opening where they're going to be showing some of Dean Thomas' stuff. I thought you and Malfoy were going to that?"  
  
"Damn! I'd forgotten. Yes, of course. Good. I can tell Seamus that vodka he was serving nearly made me mental."  
  
"I'm sure he'll think that's rich, coming from you," George drawled, striding over to the till from the stockroom. "It's pretty quiet here, Ron. It may pick up just before close, but I think you can go if you want. Thanks so much for helping out. See you at this art thing?"  
  
"Yeah. Glad I got a reminder." He ambled over to a robe and coat rack to retrieve his robe and broom. The day's neatly folded _Daily Prophet_ was on the floor under George's distinctive blue paisley robes. "Hey George, are you done with your paper?"  
  
"Yeah. Take it with you if you want."  
  
"Thanks! I'll use your fireplace back in the stockroom. See you later!" he called into the shop and both George and Lee waved their goodbyes. Ron had to navigate through a near-maze of stock and projects in the works to get to their connection to the floo network; George and Fred hadn't intended to use it very often and it was blocked to all but a few people who knew what it was called. Ron grabbed some Floo powder and threw it down, saying, "The Chimera." Fireplaces whirled past him until he was looking into his own living room. Pandemonium trotted over, meowing loudly at him as he shook the soot off of himself.  
  
"Out of food? Sorry, mate," he said, tossing the newspaper on the dining room table. Once the cat was crunching loudly on the food in her newly filled bowl, Ron glanced at his watch, which read four forty.  
  
"It's the start of the week-end, anyway," he said to the cabinet as he got down a glass and made a firewhiskey sour. He took his drink to the table and sat down, opening up the newspaper and scanning the headlines before flipping to the sports pages. He'd just taken a healthy swallow of his drink when a small picture caught his eye-- it was the same dark-haired wizard he'd seen in the mirror of the boy's bathroom. Ron choked, spluttering and coughing as the young man gazed at him, pointing downward.  
  
"What the--"  
  
The caption read **_RON. THIS ISN'T A TRICK._**  
  
Feeling his eyes bulge, Ron stared at the column underneath.  
  
_There's going to be an apocalypse put in motion by those you call Muggles. You need to warn your kind. Tell your minister that you need to shelter yourselves, hide in caves or places protected by magic. We've chosen you as our messenger, our speaker._  
  
"This is _not_ happening," he said, hating the quaver in his voice. He clenched his eyes shut so tightly he saw phantom sparks. Slowly reopening them, he looked at the top of the page, which was perfectly normal. There was an editorial discussing the up and coming Quidditch players and an article on a young witch from France taking the fencing world by storm. His gaze was irrevocably dragged back down below the fold, where the wizard with fierce eyes and a sorrowful mouth still occupied a photo space, his arms now crossing his chest.  
  
**_I DON'T MEAN TO STARTLE YOU._** the caption read.  
  
"Too fucking late for that!" Ron said, stifling a rising hysteria in his chest.  
  
_You can't run from us, but please don't be afraid. We're trying to give you advance warning so you can protect others. It's that simple. And no, you're not going crazy._  
  
Ron barked a laugh and promptly folded the paper shut. The front seemed ordinary enough; surely he'd just imagined that. He slammed back his drink, keeping a wary eye on the headlines and stories on the front of _The Daily Prophet,_ which didn't change.  
  
"This is bollocks," he muttered, his mind racing frantically to come up with any way to make the youth in the picture make sense. "You must know what it is, think about it," he said to himself, the logical explanation falling into place with the satisfactory snap of a last jigsaw piece. He let out a long, shaky breath, the hand of fear that had been gripping his heart loosing its grip. "George is trying out a new product! Something that looks like The Prophet, but it changes one of the stories to be about whoever's reading it, and it picks the barmiest stories _ever_ for that person. Oh, brilliant one, George!"  
  
He shook his head, resting his sweaty palms on the table and willing them to quit trembling.  
  
"Well, that calls for another drink."  
  
He took that one much more slowly, not wanting to have to deal with any grief from Draco. Staying away from the paper until Draco got home, Ron even managed to find the invitation to the gallery event scheduled to begin in a couple of hours. He was using a pressing charm on one of his few pairs of dress slacks when he heard the front door open and the usual succession of sounds that marked his lover's arrival. Wand in hand, he went quickly down the stairs to see Draco looking over the invitation.  
  
"Is this really tonight?" he asked, although the resigned look on his face belied that he knew the answer.  
  
"Yes. And hello to you, too," Ron said, wrapping his arms around Draco to be able to take a deep breath of his genteel, grounding scent.  
  
"Hello, Ron. Do I smell funny?"  
  
The bewilderment in his voice came across as charming, and Ron kissed a path of dry kisses from Draco's chin up his jaw.  
  
"No, you smell like you. Expensive, ruthless, and sexy."  
  
"Good." Draco softened a bit in Ron's arms. "That means I managed to banish the goblin smell off of me." He flicked his wrist to toss the invitation onto the table and it landed on the newspaper. "I bring one of those home every day; what was so compelling that you bought a Daily Prophet?"  
  
"Oh! I didn't. I'll explain-- it must be a prototype of George's. Drink?"  
  
Draco sniffed at Ron's mouth and then looked imperiously down his nose at him. "You've obviously helped yourself. I'll get some wine. No more for you until we're at this opening. You're really not fun to be around when you're blotto."  
  
"I won't, promise. Is yours in your briefcase?"  
  
"Mm hmm," Draco affirmed.  
  
"Well, see, it's quite clever," Ron said, retrieving the neatly folded paper out of Draco's attachÅ½ after Draco unlocked it with a spell. "George didn't tell me anything about it being different, but when I looked at the bottom right of the sports page, there was a picture and short column aimed directly at me. Bloody crazy content, too. He must have found a way for the paper to absorb the magical signature of the person holding it… genius, really," Ron enthused, putting the papers side by side. "See?" he said excitedly, trying to subdue the nervous churning in his stomach as to what might happen when he flipped open to the sports page. "They look identical."  
  
Draco took a mouthful of wine and swallowed. Ron was momentarily captivated by the silky movement of his Adam's apple.  
  
"Not to burst your slightly inebriated bubble, Ron, but they _are_ identical."  
  
"No, they're not. This one will have the picture of that odd young man I saw this morning in the mirror talking, well, writing about a Muggle catastrophe, and…"  
  
The pages were identical.  
  
Draco swirled the wine in his glass and took another sip. "It wouldn't surprise me if George came up with what you mentioned. I say this grudgingly, and far out of his earshot, but he's fiendishly good."  
  
Ron just stared at the papers, his disbelief transforming quickly to anger.  
  
"No, Draco, I _swear_ this was different before," he said, blasting his words at the page.  
  
"Why are you getting so upset?"  
  
"Well, it's just that, well," Ron said haltingly. The words dragged unwillingly along his tongue, like trying to coerce a child away from a sunny beach, sand pail still in hand. "You'll think I'm crazy," he finally admitted.  
  
"Most of your family already does," Draco countered, turning his head to kiss Ron firmly on the lips. "You fell in love with me."  
  
"Doesn't count!" Ron insisted, though he ensnared another kiss, this time open-mouthed and fevered, before telling his lover what had happened that day.  
  
Draco evaluated him with the kind of Malfoysian detachment Ron hadn't felt in months, and it made him feel on even rockier ground, sanity-wise. At last Draco's composure eased, and Ron let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.  
  
"Take notes," Draco said. "If this even happens again," he said, and that simple acknowledgment that this had been a one-off was enough to fill Ron's heart to bursting with gratitude. But he was still Ron, and he couldn't really articulate his full appreciation for the common-sense advice.  
  
"Okay. I'll do that," he said, and that seemed to suffice.  
  
"And if you're worried about your vision or something like that, you could always get some tests run at St. Mungo's. Maybe then you'd feel better."  
  
"Of course. I'm overreacting-- let's drop it." Ron took a swallow of his cocktail. "On a completely different topic, would you look at the shirt and trousers I picked out? I don't want to embarrass myself by looking like a wanker."  
  
Draco's eyebrows raised. "You're actually asking me to help you with your attire?" He clucked his tongue. "That worries me more than you seeing things."  
  
He gave Ron a disarming smile that pierced the bubble of fear growing in Ron's chest. It was all going to be fine.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The following Monday found Ron engaged in the weekday morning rituals he and Draco had established in their not-quite-year of cohabitating. Thankfully neither of them were particularly fond of mornings; though they did get along most of the time, old habits and years of animosity meant that it didn't take much provocation for Ron to find himself, much to his consternation and bafflement, in a heated row with his lover. Neither of them was chipper or chatty in the morning, which meant Draco could shower and get dressed while Ron made strong tea and a simple breakfast for them, all in blessed quiet.  
  
"Anything exciting planned on the Gringott's calendar today?" Ron asked when they'd nearly finished their breakfasts, using a wedge of toast to sop of the last of the egg yolk on his plate.  
  
"Not really. I do have a meeting after lunch to discuss how we're going to address the sharp devaluing of some of the European currencies in regards to the Muggle/Wizarding currency exchange."  
  
Ron grimaced. "Sounds thrilling."  
  
"Yes. It can be mind-numbing work, helping to ensure that currency can actually flow from one world to the other, but it's what I get paid handsomely to do."  
  
Ron shook his head. "I never would have imagined that you'd be involved so much with the Muggle world," he said, swirling the tea leaves in the dregs of his cup.  
  
"It's still dealing with money," Draco pointed out, spreading boysenberry preserves on a triangle of toast. "And besides, the Muggle world was the only place where I could explore my sexuality. Their world became familiar territory, some aspects, anyway. It's a bit better now, but I sure as hell wasn't going to go looking for fuckbuddies, much less somebody I might actually care about, in our circles. Too much potential for somebody to drag my already trampled family name even more into ruin. Muggles didn't care," he said blandly, chewing the toast. "You could've done the same."  
  
Leaning over the table, Ron reached for the kettle and added a bit more hot water to his tea. "I s'pose. Instead, I made rather an arse of myself and several wizards know it, but it's worked out, I'd say," he said, easing into his chair and stretching out his long legs.  
  
"Mmmm. Amazing how spending a few weeks in a quarantine ward at St. Mungo's can change one's life," Draco drawled before popping the last of his toast in his mouth. "Lovely breakfast; thank you. See you this evening-- I'll bring home take-away. Any requests?"  
  
After a moment of thought, Ron suggested curry.  
  
"Curry it is." Draco stood up and brushed the crumbs off of his robes and glanced at the clock on the mantle. "Fuck! I've got to go." He swooped past Ron's chair, brushing his lips with a kiss before hefting his briefcase and aiming straight for the fireplace. "Damn it!" he shouted, nearly tripping over the cat, which hissed back at him. Seconds later, Draco had taken the Floo network and was gone.  
  
"You shouldn't get underfoot like that," Ron scolded Pandemonium, who padded past him with disinterest, going straight for her food bowl. "But if you want to get stepped on, go right ahead."  
  
Rolling his eyes, Ron lazily levitated the dishes from the table to the sink. He stood up and walked into the kitchen, teacup in hand. He glanced down into it, blinked, and flung it away in shock. It shattered on the floor, scaring Pandemonium who ran away with a sharp meow. Heart racing, Ron tried to erase the image he'd seen in the tea leaves, but the face was burned into his memory. It was _him_ again, the figure in the mirror and then the newspaper.  
  
"Leave me the fuck alone," he whispered hoarsely at the pieces of broken crockery. Though his hand was shaking so much he could barely hold his wand, he cast a _Reparo_ on the cup and a _Terego_ on the floor.  
  
_I'm losing it_ , he thought wildly, gripping the countertop and forcing himself to take deep breaths. "No, you're not," he said aloud, suddenly taken by an urge he'd not had in quite a while. Thanks to a decent memory and a limited stash, minutes later he was outside on their porch, shivering in a tracksuit top and smoking a cigarette.  
  
Draco had suggested he write down any other instances, but Ron had no intention of mentioning this. It would go away. It was a trick of his mind; not enough sleep, or maybe a residual effect of the more colourful recreational potions he'd tried a couple of years back. Of course! Hermione had always warned him about that possibility, hadn't she?  
  
"I should go see her, after Quidditch practise," he mused aloud, nodding to himself and taking a drag on the cigarette. "I haven't stopped by the library in a couple of weeks, anyway. Perfect excuse to visit."  
  
He was still cold due to the chilly morning weather, but his internal tremors faded once he'd latched on to the probability that what he was seeing were latent drug-induced hallucinations. Ron took several deep drags on his cigarette, watching the smoke drift off into the muted dawn. After a last intake on the fag, noting the slight burning in his throat that used to be so familiar, he stubbed it out and flicked it onto the grass.  
  
The Quidditch coaching was mostly uneventful; the Ravenclaws weren't necessarily inspired, but they did take direction well. A couple of times Ron thought he saw a flash of someone soaring off, out of the intended formation, but when he whipped his head around to see who it was, there was no-one there. He found himself unduly grateful that Hermione seemed so happy when he owled her about visiting. If anyone could convince him that this was a side effect of perhaps ill-advised activities from his past and that they'd go away soon, it was her.  
  
"Ron!" she said with exuberance, waddling over to greet him as he lingered in the doorway. "I thought maybe you'd gone on holiday or something. It's been over a fortnight since I've heard from you."  
  
"Sorry," he mumbled, taking her awkwardly into a hug, her rotund belly making it a challenge to embrace her properly. "When are you due, again?"  
  
"Not for another three weeks. I wish it were now," she declared, stepping back and motioning him to sit in a chair. "Tea?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Hermione busied herself pouring two cups while Ron tried not to focus on the many pictures of Hermione and her partner, Kate. It was totally illogical, not to mention ridiculous given his own predilections, but he found it unnerving to see her with another woman.  
  
"So what's going on? You seem a bit out of sorts."  
  
He shook his head with resignation as he took the cup of tea, his gaze darting quickly to make sure there were no actual leaves in it. "I don't know how you can still do it, but you read me like a book." He blew across his tea as Hermione gingerly eased down into a chair. "I've been seeing things, and I'm pretty sure I've figured out why. You got on to me when I was in that real funk, taking some things I shouldn't have."  
  
"And rightly so. You could have overdosed or killed yourself, Merlin only knows." She took a sip of tea. "What exactly are you seeing, when you say you're seeing things?"  
  
"Oh, some bloke. Dark hair, early twenties. But he's not real. He can't be. I'm sure it's just something in my head. But it's annoying as hell, and creepy."  
  
Hermione studied him, her forehead furrowed. "I don't know, Ron. Maybe it's something real, or maybe it's a part of your own psyche. Does he talk to you? Does he have a name? Has Draco seen him, or does he just appear to you?"  
  
"No to everything. Well, he tried to talk to me when I first saw him, in the mirror in a boy's bathroom near the Hufflepuff dungeons. And then he showed up on the sports page of The Prophet. He said, well, wrote that I needed to warn the Minister because the Muggles were going to create some kind of apocalypse." Ron let out an embarrassed laugh. "If anybody was on top of something like that, it'd be you! Kate's a Muggle for Merlin's sake."  
  
Hermione looked at him with consternation, worry settling on her features. "Have you gone to St. Mungo's for some tests?"  
  
Ron's joking reply turned to ash on his tongue. "Fuck. You really think I'm a nutter, don't you?"  
  
"No!" Colour rose in Hermione's cheeks; she appeared troubled. "It could be that a ghost has decided to haunt you, but his message is odd. And don't take this personally, but you don't exactly seem like the best type of Wizard to convey something like that to."  
  
Ron let out a sigh of relief. " _Exactly_!" He sat back and crossed his foot over his knee. "If some spectre or what have you really wanted to talk to the Minister, he'd go to the Minister himself. Or Harry. Or Shacklebolt. Somebody who had rank like that." He felt tremendously better, though he still didn't like the idea of having to deal with a part of his subconscious showing up with disconcerting regularity. "Do you think if I go to St. Mungo's they could figure out how to make it so that part of my mind making it up, quits?"  
  
She pressed her lips together and then drummed her fingers against the side of her cup. "Probably. It might not be in your mind, though. I'd go see an Astralogist."  
  
"An astrologist?" Ron asked. "Why?"  
  
"Astralogist, with an 'a'," Hermione clarified. "They're Healers who work with people who have interactions with entities in different astral realms than our own. It's a small field, but that would be my recommendation."  
  
Ron nodded. "I'll go by there in the next day or so. Thanks for listening, and for not thinking I'm crazy."  
  
"Oh, I know you're crazy!" she said with a cheerful laugh. "You're still with Malfoy!"  
  
With that, Ron charged down a well-trodden path of banter between them to do with Ron's choice of partner and Hermione's. She shooed him out of her office when her clock chimed two, saying she needed to meet with the person she was training to take over part of her cataloguing responsibilities while she was on maternity leave.  
  
Since Ron didn't see the need to hurry back home, he wandered through the part of London where the Wizarding Central Library was located, hidden away from Muggle eyes. He glanced up at a building with a huge picture draped on one side. It had an arresting image of a city going up in flames, a cloud of ozone and smoke hovering over the crumbling structures. Ron stopped, staring at it when he recognised it was London itself, Big Ben and the House of Commons silhouetted against the angry sky. Words appeared on the banner and his jaw dropped. Ice ran in his veins.  
  
_RON WEASLEY. PROTECT THOSE YOU HOLD DEAR._  
  
"Holy fuck," he rasped, looking wildly around. No one crowding past him knew who he was; they were Muggles going about their business. One hapless man ran smack into Ron as he gaped at the warning.  
  
"Watch where you're going, mate!" the man spat.  
  
"I was just standing here!" Ron yelled.  
  
The near-scuffle ended as quickly as it had begun, the Londoner grumbling under his breath. Ron spun around to look at the huge banner once more. It no longer had his name on it-- it seemed to be an advertisement for a Muggle film premiering at their cinemas in five days. That was the date on it, anyway.  
  
Ron's heart was pounding. He needed to get back to the Wizarding world. Thankfully he wasn't yet so far gone as to Apparate in the middle of a crowded Muggle footpath and get slapped by Ministry fines and have magic-using limitations put on him, but his nerves were frayed. He could feel the weight of someone's gaze on him and didn't doubt it was his spectral or mental unwished-for companion. His feet led him into a popular Muggle establishment with a yellow letter M as its sign. There in the gents' loo, he took his chances and went into a stall before Apparating into Hogsmeade. He went along the cobblestone streets, grateful that it wasn't nearly as busy here as it had been where he'd just been, and headed straight to the Dragon's Lair.  
  
"Pint of the Welsh," he said to the young barkeep, who busily set to filling Ron a glass.  
  
After the second war, a few more enterprising witches and wizards had literally set up shop in Hogsmeade, and this pub was one of those that had thrived while not slowing Rosemerta's sales in the least. Ron had no intention of getting pissed, he just needed to take the edge off. He took his ale to a booth and sat for a time, doodling on a napkin with a Muggle biro that had made its way into his jacket pocket. Chewing on the end of the biro, he looked at what he'd been idly writing. "Hashmal" was printed all over the napkin, but he had no idea what the word meant. As he glanced at his watch, Ron saw it was nearly five o'clock.  
  
"Shite, I should get home," he said to himself before finishing his pint.  
  
"Another round?" the winsome man at the bar called out.  
  
"Not today. Cheers!" Ron said, grabbing the napkin and shoving it into his jacket pocket.  
  
He took the Floo network home, had a quick look at the owl post, and decided to have another clandestine cigarette on the porch. He lit it, sank down into a chair, propping his feet on an ornate metal footstool, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw the young man haunting his subconscious sitting in the chair opposite him, his elbows on his knees. Frozen in shock and panic, Ron sat, staring at him.  
  
"In many ways, I wish I could say otherwise," the uninvited guest said, his voice melodious and fluty, "but I'm not an element of your mind. Nor is my appearance caused by some kind of belated side effect to the potions you took in your past. I'm a messenger."  
  
"You're… you're…" Ron's voice grated harshly; he cleared his throat. "You're not real. Now leave me the hell alone."  
  
The young man shook his head. A cigarette appeared in his fingers and with an elegant gesture, it was lit. He took a sensual deep inhale and blew two smoke rings before focussing his attentions back on Ron.  
  
"I can't," he said simply. "Do you care at all about the fact that terrorists will simultaneously bomb London, Dublin and Edinburgh, taking out much of your Wizarding population as well? Unless you, Ron, will just warn your own government?" he asked, leaning heavily on each word of his last sentence.  
  
Ron squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head as though he were a horse trying to shake off a fly. When he opened his eyes, the phantasm -- or whatever it was -- still sat there, now looking disappointed more than anything else.  
  
"Who are you?" Ron finally asked, after tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette.  
  
"I think you know. Look at the paper in your pocket."  
  
Confused, Ron stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out the crumpled napkin. He put it on his thigh, smoothing out the creases to see one word written over and over.  
  
"Hashmal," he said softly. "Great. I've even given this mad part of my mind a name."  
  
"You are **so** stubborn!" Hashmal said incredulously, shaking his head. "Would you really prefer to believe that you're going insane than that you've been chosen as the wizard to save thousands of your kind?"  
  
Ron took a deep breath, trying to catalogue the various types of spirits he'd studied back at Hogwarts. Thanks to Hermione he knew that many Muggles believed in spirit-creatures called angels, but from what he remembered, they didn't act or look anything like Hashmal.  
  
"I'm going to write to the Astralogist at St. Mungo's, whoever that may be," Ron said, ignoring Hashmal's question, "as soon as I finish this." He gestured with the cigarette dangling in his fingers. "And then I'm going to clean the kitchen. I'll have dinner with Draco when he brings it home, and then I'm going to give him a long, satisfying blowjob. Since you're a part of me, no matter what you say, you're welcome to stick around for any or all of that."  
  
"I'm near you all the time," Hashmal said ruefully, lifting the cigarette to his full lips.  
  
"Exactly. I should probably be more worried that I'm talking aloud to you, but frankly, I believe that the Healers are going to say there's no evidence whatsoever that I'm seeing or being influenced by a ghost or sprite or just a soul who got lost on his way to the Afterlife." Ron stood up and ground out the cigarette. "Because you're a part of me, and I'll get somebody to do an exorcism or something, and then you'll leave me the fuck alone," he said emphatically, a grim smile on his face.  
  
"I really, really wish you weren't going to make this so hard yourself." Hashmal rose smoothly from his seat. "There are only five days, but at this rate, you'll make them seem like five years, and the end result will be destruction. Annihilation. Draco dead, or worse."  
  
"You leave him the fuck out of this," Ron growled, his fury baring its claws as his pulse skyrocketed. He stormed at Hashmal, who vanished. "Augh! FUCK!" he yelled, wheeling around, expecting the entity to have reappeared somewhere nearby. Nothing. With an incensed cry, he beat the side of his fist on the railing.  
  
"That's it!" he snarled. "I refuse to see you anymore. I'm ignoring you. You may be in my head, but I'm going to find somebody to lock you down. For good."  
  
Despite his bravado, Ron was still on edge for the next hour, but Hashmal seemed to have gone elsewhere. Ron had a couple of shots of some Scotch Ginny had sent from a distillery she'd toured the last time the Harpies had competed in Scotland. He felt much more like himself by the time Draco arrived home with their take-away. Draco, unfortunately, was in an irritable mood and everything Ron said came out wrong and not at all placating. He was pants at that in general, but when Draco was prickly and on edge, nothing could make it better except for the mood to pass. Draco was kind enough not to inflict himself on Ron and went off into his study. Ron amused himself in front of the fire reading a fantasy book called _Fang and Fury_. The protagonist, a werewolf, and his vampire lover got up to some interesting sexual pastimes, so once it was time to call it a night, he was pretty turned on.  
  
The deep furrows in Draco's forehead had eased some when Ron spelled out the fire and went to their bathroom to get ready for the night. He stood behind Draco, who was brushing his teeth, letting his hands roam across the front of Draco's boxers, kissing his long neck. He let his gaze dart to the mirror to gauge Draco's reaction.  
  
"Something on your mind?" Draco said once he spat out the toothpaste foam into the sink.  
  
"Yeah. Your dick, my mouth. Sound good?" Ron gently squeezed his lover's pliant cock, noting that Draco relaxed back against him.  
  
"Mmmmhmmm. Always does." A sultry smile glided onto his lips.  
  
Soon they were naked on the bed, Draco writhing on his back. Ron used the skills he'd honed since they'd been shagging, bringing Draco near the brink and then slowing things down only to lube up his fingers and finger fuck him at the same time. Draco came loudly, his broken 'Ah's fading into heavy breaths. Ron was hard as a rock; he sat back on his heels, able now to focus on his own building release. Draco's gaze was still heated as Ron stroked himself, his hand pistoning up and down as Draco watched, nodding imperceptibly.  
  
"Fucking gorgeous," Draco said.  
  
It took only a couple of minutes before Ron was gasping, the prickles at the root of his shaft building to near-painful pressure. He closed his eyes as the release hit him and he cried out, his hand making jerky motions on his cock. After the waves of pleasure subsided, he opened his eyes to see Draco lazily playing with the skin of his shaved sacs.  
  
"You've really surprised me," Draco drawled. "To be honest, most people look ridiculous when they come. You, though, you're actually sexy."  
  
Ron swallowed, his jaw a bit sore from his vigorous attentions to Draco's hefty cock. "Well, thanks," he said, loosening his hold on his spent prick and wiping his sticky hand on his thigh. "Glad it's an expression you get to see a lot."  
  
Draco snorted. "If I weren't getting some on a regular basis, well, we'd _definitely_ have to talk," he said with a low laugh. "Now go and get cleaned up and tuck us into bed so I can cuddle next to you."  
  
"Cuddle? Merlin, you did have a shite day," Ron said, cautiously easing up off of the bed.  
  
A feeling he realised was contentment washed through him as he heard Draco talking quietly to their cat. He glanced down at the dragon tattoo near his hip, smiling briefly. Though a sense of foreboding rose in him, Ron decided he really should tell Draco about the fact that the young man he'd seen in the mirror and newspaper had manifested himself in person. He put out the lights and slid under the covers. As Draco draped an arm over Ron's abdomen, Ron said, "I saw him again. Hashmal."  
  
There were a few moments of silence.  
  
"Hashmal?"  
  
"The guy I saw. He was here. On the porch."  
  
Draco stiffened, but didn't move away from Ron. "Did he do anything to you?" he asked, voice tight. "Or you to him? Should we ward the house?"  
  
Ron's pulse sped up; his stomach clenched as a web of fear stretched around his insides. That Draco didn't dismiss it out of hand said a lot about his feelings for Ron, but his practical questions made Ron feel daft for not having even considered them at the time.  
  
"No, he didn't. I didn't even consider trying to do anything to him, because he can't be real. I don't think wards are necessary, and they take a bloody long time to crate. We need to sleep. I'm sorry I brought it up," he went on, meaning every word of that sentiment.  
  
"I'm not." Draco sounded fully awake, and cross, though not necessarily at Ron. "If there's something or someone affecting you like this, I want to do something about it."  
  
"Actually, I'm sorry I didn't say this before, but you weren't in a great mood earlier," Ron said gingerly. Draco made a grudging noise that might have been agreement. "I visited Hermione. She gave me some sound, logical advice, and I'm going to St. Mungo's tomorrow."  
  
Draco harrumphed. "She's capable of dispensing that, I suppose." Ron nestled closer to his lover, placing a dry kiss on the shelf of his collarbone. "Tell me how it goes, even if I am in a crappy mood. Merlin, do I need a holiday," he said, his emphatic tone now tempered with fatigue.  
  
"A holiday could solve a lot, I reckon," Ron observed, yawning.  
  
"We can talk about it later. Let's go to sleep."  
  
Ron agreed, pulling the coverlet up to his chin. He found that sleep came easily. His dreams, however, were convoluted and tortuous, full of nameless dread and walls of mirrors. Every mirror Ron walked past reflected Hashmal, disappointment blazing from his face.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Ron woke up the next day with a sour taste on his tongue and a sense that he'd forgotten something terribly important. He pushed the thoughts aside as he and Draco went through their morning routine. It wasn't until Draco was nearly to their fireplace when he grabbed a handful of Floo powder and then glanced back over at Ron. "Don't forget, we're meeting Blaise for dinner at seven-thirty. I'll owl you where we're eating once he settles on a place."  
  
"Oh. Right." Ron sipped his coffee-- he'd not wanted to risk having tea. "Let me know if it's somewhere I'll have to dress up for or something."  
  
A sympathetic smile graced Draco's features. "I will. Fuck. I've got to go. Love you."  
  
"I love you too," Ron said as Draco vanished in a tower of green flame.  
  
Alone again, Ron found his fingers itching to hold a cigarette. He hated how easy it was to be under their sway again, but as long as he kept it to one or two a day, and kept working out… He put on a proper coat and cast a heating charm on his mug of coffee before going to the porch. Ron smoked without the phantasm showing up. In fact, Hashmal didn't make an appearance until Ron walked into the bedroom after his shower.  
  
"Fuck! Stop doing that," he said irritably, rubbing at his damp hair with a towel.  
  
"I need you to take me seriously," Hashmal said. He seemed to have a soft aura around him, making him look even more otherworldly. Ron tried not to let his feelings be swayed. He was a manifestation Ron had created, full stop.  
  
"Look," Ron snapped. "I'm going to St. Mungo's, as I'm sure you know. If you really are some kind of creature from the spirit world, then you'll have to prove it to me. I want you to manifest yourself so a Healer, one of these Astralogists, can test the area where you are with her wand. If she, or he, doesn't pick up on you, that's all the proof I need that you're an annoying part of my mind that for whatever reason is really fucking with me."  
  
"Ron, listen to me."  
  
Hashmal walked near to him, and for the first time Ron thought he felt a shimmer of contact, a tingling like when he'd been sitting funny and his foot went to sleep, and he had to massage the life back into it. Hashmal's handsome, vaguely exotic features reminded Ron of some of the memorable young men he'd seen during his family's trip to Egypt, many years before.  
  
"Your Healers won't be able to register my energy with their equipment or wands. I'm not a spectre, and most importantly, I was never human. I've only ever been like this. The only kind of person who would be able to see me, besides you, of course, is a shaman. Somebody who's open to beings that exist and travel in the Luminaries, non-terrestrial realms."  
  
Ron nodded absently, pulling on a pair of y-fronts and choosing some comfortable jeans and a Green Knights long-sleeved t-shirt. "You're a figment of my imagination. You can't even touch me, can you?" he challenged, both confident and scared shitless that was about to be proven wrong. Far better to be talking to himself, ultimately, than to have really been singled out by… something.  
  
Hashmal closed his eyes, his hands balled into fists before relaxing, defeat radiating from him. "No, I can't touch you, not directly like you're meaning."  
  
Ron let out a breath and finished getting dressed. "Okay then. Hang out all you want. I'll see what they say at hospital."  
  
"Ron, I really don't want to torment you, that's not why I was sent!" Hashmal was wringing his hands, obviously distressed.  
  
"Good! Then bugger off," Ron said through a clenched jaw.  
  
The entity scowled, gave Ron a hard look that pierced him with a stab of fear, and then vanished.  
  
"This has got to stop," Ron muttered.  
  
After cleaning Pandemonium's litter box and making sure she had plenty of food and water, Ron Apparated to a location near the phone box to get him into St. Mungo's. He was greeted by a cheery receptionist and was asked to take a seat after Ron explained he didn't have an appointment and didn't really know whom he needed to see. He'd brought _Fang and Fury_ with him but only read a few pages before someone in dark orange robes delicately cleared her throat. Ron looked up and saw an older witch who'd obviously been quite beautiful in the day, a silk purple eye patch covering her left eye.  
  
"Mr. Weasley?" she asked.  
  
"Yes." He closed his book and stood up, towering over her by a foot.  
  
"I'm Healer Westwind. Xanthia Westwind." She shook his hand.  
  
"Ron."  
  
"Delighted. Please follow me."  
  
Ron walked just behind her, wondering whether or not he should attempt to make small talk, when the Healer stopped in front of an exam room. She gestured for Ron to enter, so he did and she followed behind him, pulling the door to but leaving it slightly ajar.  
  
"So!" she said brightly, summoning a dicta-quill and parchment so that they hovered above the counter. "Please, have a seat. We'll just talk for a little bit so that I have a better understanding of what's disturbing you."  
  
Ron felt very much at ease around her and gave her an abbreviated version of the events of the previous few days, her dicta-quill scratching down what he said. She nodded and didn't interrupt. Once he was done, she steepled her fingers, tapping her index fingers gently together.  
  
"I'll be candid: there's a lot we don't know or understand about the astral realms. That said, each time we're able to make contact with a being, or develop photographs of a sort that capture the energy of one, we make great strides in helping those witches and wizards that are being harassed or receiving unwanted attention. Is Hashmal here?"  
  
Ron slowly turned his head to the corner behind him where, sure enough, the young man stood, looking both peevish and sorrowful.  
  
"He certainly is." Ron pointed to the corner. "But like I told you, I don't think you'll be able to detect him at all."  
  
The Healer rose from her chair, turning and walking just in front of Hashmal. "Did you say he looked Middle Eastern?" she asked, and Ron's breakfast began to turn to lead in his stomach.  
  
"Yes, I guess. Can you see him?" he asked, his words fading to a whisper.  
  
"No, I can't see anything out of the ordinary. I wouldn't expect to, necessarily. I would like to try a few conjuring spells and thought his ethnicity could help me along that path."  
  
"Oh. Of course." Ron still felt queasy, especially when Hashmal said, "This is a waste of time! You need to go warn your government, warn somebody! We don't want there to be a senseless waste of your kind."  
  
"Excuse me for being an idiot," Ron replied angrily, "but why do you care so much about us, anyway? What about all of the Muggles who are going to die, according to you? Why not just stop them from causing mass destruction in the first place?"  
  
"Beg pardon?" The Healer was looking at him with a puzzled expression.  
  
"Sorry, I was talking to Hashmal. He's not making any bloody sense. Not that that's a first."  
  
"Well…" She regarded him with concern, then turned back to the corner and began casting a spell in a language Ron was certain he'd never heard before.  
  
"It's not necessary for you to know our reasoning," Hashmal stated. "And I can't make your Healer conjure me because I'm already here. She's too logical. For all of her studies of the ethers or whatever it is she's focussed on, I can't manifest myself in a way for her to pick up on it."  
  
"You're such a bloody nuisance!" Ron fumed. "You can talk around any suggestion I put out there for me to believe you exist."  
  
"Mr. Weasley?" Healer Westwind was looking at him again, evidently displeased at having been interrupted once more. "It's not that I doubt you; you're quite convincing that you see someone. But could you please remain quiet for a few minutes while I run through a short set of spells? They're delicate and require concentration."  
  
"Yes. I'm sorry. He's just… he's driving me mental."  
  
"Ron, I've had enough of this." The spectre let out a large huff, stared at Ron, and then walked straight toward him, through the Healer, who didn't react in any way whatsoever. He stopped a few feet away, quirking his lips to one side. Ron was suddenly nauseous, flashes of hot and cold crashing through him. What the fuck was going on?  
  
"No," he said, his voice trembling. "I've had enough of you."  
  
"Mr. Weasley." The Healer strode toward him, her expression of ire transforming to concern when she saw the state he was in. "I really don't know what to say about the existence of this being, but I'm beginning to believe that a psychiatric evaluation is in order."  
  
The ramifications of what she was saying hit Ron with the force of a Bludger. "You, too," he said, gripping the counter for assistance as his legs weren't supporting him very well. "No. I'm not crazy. I may be seeing things, but I'm not going insane. You." He jabbed his finger at Hashmal, who was rubbing at his temples with his fingers before resting them against his lips. "You leave me the hell alone. I'm not telling the Ministry anything. You can follow me around like a shadow, but I'm ignoring you. Four days and then it'll be over anyway, according to you."  
  
Ron felt a hand on his bicep, and he jerked his arm away, startled.  
  
"Mr. Weasley, I think for your own safety and peace of mind--"  
  
"No. No offence, Healer Westwind, but I've got to go. Thank you for trying." He snatched up his book from the chair and stormed out of the room, not pausing when he heard the Astralogist calling for him. He jogged out to the exit and Apparated to a part of Wizarding London he knew reasonably well; he knew where the pubs were, anyway. He practically pulled the door off the hinges at The Belligerent Badger, and drank three shots of Firewhiskey in quick succession before his pulse started to slow down.  
  
"New plan of attack," he said to himself. Hashmal wasn't there, but Ron didn't doubt he'd only been granted a short reprieve. "Ignore him, and for fuck's sake, quit talking to yourself. Just act normal."  
  
He took a deep breath, begged a cigarette off the wizard next to him, and sat quietly as he nursed a Vampire's Kiss.  
  
"Just act normal."  
  
* * * * *  
  
The dinner with Blaise was much like the other Ron had experienced; he and Draco chatted with the kind of informal camaraderie Ron had with his friends, Draco occasionally trying to bring Ron into the conversation. Mostly Ron was quite content to enjoy the food and blend into the background. He managed not to put his foot in it and even had a brief conversation with Blaise about the French fencing witch who was doing so well. Blaise didn't share Draco's and Ron's preferences for their own gender, but even Ron recognised that Mademoiselle Guillemain was sexy as well as skilled with a blade.  
  
Later that evening, Ron sat by the fire in what was ostensibly Draco's study. He was nearly finished with _Fang and Fury_ , and he read avidly while Draco dealt with some legal paperwork he'd been putting off. It was something to do with a winery to which the Malfoys had a distant and challenging relationship.  
  
"How was St. Mungo's?" Draco asked, turning his head and fixing his gaze on Ron.  
  
Ron huffed out a heavy breath, noting the page he was on and closing the paperback. "Pointless. Well, not entirely pointless-- the Healer couldn't see him. But he was there. Or I manifested him there. I don't know," Ron said, now disgusted with the situation rather than wracked with anxiety. "Haven't seen him since. Maybe that was it."  
  
"Maybe. What's he on about, again? And his name?"  
  
"Hashmal. I'd rather not say it aloud," Ron admitted, the words gritty in his mouth. "Could be like some of those bog spirits Seamus used to talk about. Once you say their name, that gives them power."  
  
"If he really exists," Draco reminded him, his expression oddly businesslike.  
  
"Right. He says London, Glasgow and Edinburgh will be bombed. Terrorists. Didn't say who, or why. Quite vague about it all, really."  
  
Draco tapped his long, thin fingers against the wooden secretary. "And he wants you to tell our Minister so the wizarding population has a heads up."  
  
Ron nodded and grimaced, knowing it sounded almost exactly like the plot of some of the books he'd read over the summer when he'd been on a post-apocalyptic jag.  
  
"Didn't you read a novel like that?" Draco asked as though reading Ron's mind.  
  
Ron gave a defeated shrug. "Probably in my head. Maybe it's a delayed curse, or some chemical-induced hallucination that's using my imagination."  
  
Draco caught his upper lip with his teeth, sucked briefly, then looked resolved. "Time to try a different tactic, then. Hypnosis, perhaps. A good hypnotist could purse that from your mind, I suspect. It may resolve itself, though. Maybe going to St. Mungo's was enough reality to force it away."  
  
"I hope so," Ron said fervently. "I'll just expect things to be normal until proven otherwise. That's the plan."  
  
That plan worked for all of seventy-two hours.  
  
Ron had just started to believe that Hashmal had given up on him when he noticed something odd in one of the trees during a morning run through the no longer Forbidden Forest. Hashmal stood on a branch reaching over the path, perfectly balanced, his hands hidden inside the long sleeves of his tunic. Ron slowed to a jog, breathing heavily, but kept going after giving the entity a two-fingered salute. He brought his pace back up to speed only to feel he was being followed. Seconds later, Hashmal was at his side, running, but not at all winded.  
  
"Nothing's changed," Ron huffed. "I'm still ignoring you."  
  
"Come on!" Hashmal pleaded. "Is it really too much of a risk to give your people a warning? What do you have to lose?"  
  
"Any credibility at all," Ron said as his feet pounded against the earth. "This conversation is over. I've got to find a Wizard to get rid of you," he said to himself, getting more irritated by the moment as his stride wasn't his usual speed. "Should owl Bill. I'll bet he'd know who to talk to."  
  
"I can't leave you alone anymore," Hashmal stated. "I don't want you to harm yourself, but this is too important. You must--"  
  
"The only thing I must do is get you out of my fucking head!" Ron yelled. "Goodbye!"  
  
He was at the edge of the Hogwarts grounds. Fuming and irritable, he sprinted toward the castle and the Quidditch changing rooms where he would shower and change. His eyes stung with sweat. He raised his shoulder to wipe at his face and stumbled a bit, overcompensating as he tried to get back in rhythm. His left ankle twisted and a jolt of pain shot through his leg. Hashmal seemed to fade a bit, but Ron's concern with him flew away as he hobbled and hopped to a stop, favouring his right leg.  
  
"Fuck, fuck, oh _fuck_ that hurts," he moaned, limping and trying to shake his ankle to keep it loose.  
  
Hashmal was still as close as a shadow, but looked distressed, and less substantial than he had been.  
  
"Why don't you help me?" Ron asked through gritted teeth, limping across the grass. "Oh wait, you can't touch me. Merlin! I'm going to go crazy and it'll all be your fucking fault."  
  
"I wish I could!" the spectre insisted, reaching toward Ron before dropping his hands back at his sides. "It's one of the rules. Breaking them is anathema to me."  
  
"So I'm done with you," muttered Ron, grimacing with each step and wishing he'd taken his wand on his run. At least Poppy would be there and she could put a bandage and ice on it. That and a pain potion would be enough for him to be able to meet with the chess club, or maybe he'd cancel, depending on what Madame Pomfrey said.  
  
"Now probably isn't the best time for me to bring this up," Hashmal said, craning his neck into Ron's line of vision as they neared the changing rooms. "I can't make you do anything-- only a Dark One could, or would. But I can affect your dreams, and the way you see things. I don't want to see you harmed, or doubting yourself."  
  
"You're really a passive-aggressive bastard, aren't you?"  
  
Ron's ankle throbbed and now he was chilled, his sweat cooling him overmuch in the brisk morning weather.  
  
"If that's how you want to see things," Hashmal said, resigned. "You'll be heading home soon. I'll be there."  
  
"How delightful," Ron snapped, the words dripping with sarcasm. "You can have tea ready, and scones. With raspberry jam. And cream. The works."  
  
He was alone in the changing room; Hashmal had vanished. Ron leaned against one of the lockers for support, Accio'ed his wand and duffel from his office and began his slow ascent to the infirmary.  
  
"Coach Weasley," Poppy tut-tutted when she inspected his ankle a while later. "Why ever did you decide to take a turn like that? You're lucky you didn't break it."  
  
Ron made a vague noise.  
  
"A sprain will take longer to heal. I've put an herbal bandage on it, and take this." She handed him a low-grade pain potion. "I want you to go home-- take the Floo from my office. I'll open it up so you don't have to go downstairs to the kitchens. Once home, elevate it for a few hours. Keep your weight off of it as much as possible."  
  
"I will. Thank you. This wasn't the way I'd planned to start out my day, for sure!"  
  
"No, I suspect it wasn't," she said in her brisk, efficient manner. "Go on. I need to check up on the Tanner girl. Thought it would be a good idea to try a hair growing spell, but it went a bit wrong."  
  
Ron smiled. "You always have your hands full. I'll be off, then."  
  
He expanded the crutches and hobbled to her fireplace. It was awkward, but he managed to get to his own house without falling over. Ron manoeuvred into the kitchen to make some tea, and once the kettle was on, he turned around and saw Hashmal leaning against the counter. Ron silently regarded him; oddly enough, Hashmal was quite handsome. This was the first time Ron had been so close to him and not been panicked or boiling with anger. There was something off about Hashmal, his large sloe-eyes too far apart, perhaps; his gestures smooth, unnaturally so, as though learned at a school or by watching, and watching…  
  
"Accio parchment," Ron said brusquely. Under Hashmal's gaze, he penned a quick note to Bill, asking his advice about seeing things and/or an exorcism. _Where are you now, anyway?_ he wrote. _Firecall me if you want._  
  
Ron's hasty anger, so long his companion, stopped by again. He turned away from Hashmal with a growl of displeasure, hopping on his good foot to get his tea ready. Once the kettle boiled, he fixed his cup, pocketed the dwindling pack of fags and matches, and levitated the tea to the porch. Outside he took in the leaden sky, pulling his jacket closer around him.  
  
"Pig!" he called and the owl swooped down, chipper and indefatigable as always. He tied the note to Pig's leg and stroked his head affectionately for a short while before the owl flew off.  
  
Hashmal stood, looking at Ron with an expression Ron couldn't place. Ron lit a cigarette, pulling his right leg to his chest, the leg with the sprain stretched out and propped on a small table. His ankle still ached, but it was nothing like how it had been before he saw Poppy. He drank his tea and smoked, eventually looking Hashmal squarely in the face.  
  
"You can make your own tea," he said snidely. "I'm sure that's in your bag of tricks."  
  
Hashmal became incensed-- he seemed to grow, or the energy around him did, crackling and sparking; there was a strong smell of incense and ozone. The air thundered around him and he rose with two smooth sweeps before languidly sinking back down to the porch. The haze around Hashmal was a violent furore; Ron had to turn his eyes away, though the image of a voluminous cape, or something wide and expansive behind Hashmal's back was seared into the mind's eye.  
  
"Ronald Bilius Weasley," the entity said, his voice an angry chorus. "I will no longer put up with your disrespect and insolence. See me for what I am!"  
  
"NO!" he said through a syrupy hiccough. "You're not real!"  
  
Eyes clenched shut, blindly he got up and tried to hurry into the house. He stumbled and pain seared his ankle. He crashed against the sliding door, his eyes flying open. Hashmal, too, was grimacing in pain, far more insubstantial and ghostlike than before.  
  
"That hurts you?" Ron said, his eyes shamefully burning with tears. "When I'm in pain, that affects **you**? Oh, that's bloody brilliant, not to mention totally fucked up," he said harshly.  
  
Hashmal's pyrotechnics were gone; he trembled but appeared to regain his usual substantiality as Ron's ankle returned to its low aching pulse.  
  
"Beloved, chosen one. Don't, for the love of all things holy follow that line of thought!" Hashmal said. Desperation was stamped on his elegant features; anxiety shone from the depths of his eyes.  
  
"Oh, just you wait," he threatened, but his stomach clenched with fear.  
  
Ron felt like he was sleepwalking, or once again under the influence of some of the hallucinogenic potions he'd dabbled in when he was crumbling under the weight of his self-perceived failure. He limped into the house, intent on finding one thing: a hand-held mirror. He didn't have time to dick around, so, wand out, he yelled, " _Accio_ mirror!"  
  
Several came hurtling downstairs; the crescent-shaped one from the wall behind him sailed to his feet. He picked it up, almost unable to keep a hold of it, his hand shook so much.  
  
"Fuck," he whispered, and then let out a wild half-sob at what he was about to do. If he was any good, he was about to hurt like hell, but Hashmal would be gone-- maybe not forever, but for a while. He propped up the mirror against the counter ledge, seeing Hashmal standing behind him in the reflection, grief and shock written on Hashmal's face. Ron summoned every bit of anger and all the feelings of injustice at being put in the situation he found himself. Wand pointed at the mirror, he focussed how much he hated whatever Hashmal was or represented, then stared into his own wild-eyed face and roared, " _CRUCIO!_ "  
  
Pain lashed through him with the wild ferocity of Fiendfyre, tore and gnawed at his bones, his guts, his teeth. It was agony; it feasted on him, gorging on his spirit, ripping him apart and grinding him into the ground.  
  
Ron blacked out.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Coming to, Ron wondered why he was curled up in a foetal position on the living room floor. His joints felt full of crunching glass shards as he gingerly rose up on his elbows. Memory came flooding back and with effort, he looked around. When his gaze lit on Hashmal, sitting near the fireplace, his thin legs hugged to his chest, Ron groaned.  
  
"Why would you do such a thing?" Hashmal asked, his tone heavy like tolling bells.  
  
Ron could see he wasn't at his regular condition, but it wouldn't be long. Fucking Merlin, he was going to have to Crucio himself again.  
  
"Because you won't go away," Ron said thickly. "I thought that was obvious."  
  
He sat up, murmuring a string of invectives. Even though he felt as though anvils had attacked him, he stood up and limped into the kitchen. Two shots of firewhiskey later, he didn't tremble or hurt as much and it allowed him to get on with what he had to do next. Supporting himself against the counter as he hobbled back to the living room, he retrieved the mirror and his wand.  
  
"Ronald, no!" the entity cried out. He seemed overcome by ineffable dismay, which provided the fuel Ron needed to ramp up his anger, and to mean it when he cast the next Unforgivable.  
  
"I'm not spending the rest of my life with you around," Ron promised, letting his fury and his injustice build again.  
  
Hashmal looked horrified.  
  
"Leave me alone!" Ron yelled hoarsely.  
  
"I can't! By the Unnameable, I can't!" Hashmal was the epitome of wretched, but Ron didn't care.  
  
"Then you can watch. _CRUCIO!_ " Ron shouted as light shot from his wand, hit the mirror and crashed into his body.  
  
Pain knifed through him and he slumped to the floor, gasping and moaning. Blistering sores seemed to well up all inside of him; breathing and moving made him feel he was cocooned in razor wire. Finally his anguish began to subside and he turned his head, hoping Hashmal would have been rendered incapacitated and insubstantial.  
  
The spot was empty.  
  
With a rusty bark of triumph, Ron slowly turned his head, feeling dagger-points in his neck. As he rolled to the other side, hoping his arms would hold his weight, he saw the hem of Hashmal's tunic and let out a cry of distress. He fumbled for his wand, hindered by residual pain and shaking with the desperate need to make this creature leave forever. What if Draco found him like this? He'd be sent to the incurable ward at St. Mungo's for sure! He let out a wounded, inarticulate yell as he grasped his wand. Hashmal, too, let out an unearthly noise. Hashmal's ululation changed in pitch while Ron screamed in rage, a wave of untamed magic pouring out of him. A series of tinkling sounds tore at Ron's comprehension before there was a huge crash from their bedroom. Panicked, Ron threw his arm over his head, afraid the ceiling would fall, or the whole house would cave in.  
  
Eerie silence drifted around them like snow. Ron was still shaking but got himself together enough to grab a hold of the edge of the coffee table and pull into a hunched, seated position. Hashmal hovered as close as he could, curved forward as though a protective cape would spring from his back.  
  
"I couldn't let you harm yourself any more," he murmured, one hand tentatively reaching out as though he were going to brush Ron's hair from his face.  
  
"What did you do?" Ron asked, his eyes glancing to the crescent-shaped mirror. It was cracked, fissures running haywire across the surface. "You broke it? Or did I?" he whimpered. "They're all shattered, aren't they? All the mirrors…" His voice trailed off as a part far inside of him snapped, helplessly. He couldn't fight this, he couldn't win.  
  
Defeated, Ron considered his options. Draco loved him and wouldn't want to put him put away, but he'd demand that Ron go in for more tests. Maybe if he could talk to Bill--  
  
"I'm going to figure out what it'll take to convince my lover and brother that I've not lost my fucking mind," he said to Hashmal, proud that his voice didn't shake very much. "I'll be taking the scotch, what's left of the cigarettes and my gimpy leg out to the porch. I really, really hope you won't follow me. But who's to stop you?" Ron let out a harsh laugh. "No one. No more Crucios, and contrary to what this mess looks like, I'm not suicidal. Oh, Pan. There you are, poor thing."  
  
Pandemonium looked straight at Hashmal; her fur rose and she hissed, bristling at his presence. After a brief standoff, she made a plaintive meow to Ron and followed at his feet, even sitting in his lap once he was situated in his chair on the porch. Ron spent the next couple of hours getting drunk out of his mind, escaping his situation the way he knew best. Aside from an awkward and painful excursion to the bathroom, he sat, drinking and engaging in a dialogue of sorts with Hashmal, who asked Ron how he could possibly live the rest of his life with the guilt of not speaking up.  
  
The more intoxicated Ron got, the more belligerent he became in telling Hashmal he was a shitty messenger and shouldn't have chosen him in the first place.  
  
"Why the fuck would you choose me as an oracle?" Ron slurred before losing his line of thought.  
  
"Because they would have listened to you," Hashmal said morosely.  
  
Ron snorted, tried to light a cigarette, and failed, cursing the cigarette and matches alike. He only realised he must have passed out around then when he came to and found he was in a bed that wasn't his. Well, it was, but it wasn't his bed anymore, and hadn't been since he'd left the Burrow. One of Draco's handcrafted hangover potions was within arm's length, but before Ron reached for it, he lolled his pounding head to see who was looking at him. He knew he wasn't alone, but he didn't dare guess who might be in the room. They were both fuzzy, and halos of light seemed to glow around them due to Ron's crap eyesight when hung over.  
  
"Ron. I'm…" Draco's voice faltered. "I don't know what to say." He sat next to the bed, his hands gripped together, using one thumb to scrape under the other thumbnail. "Bill owled me-- you were passed out on the deck, your ankle bandaged up, every mirror shattered. I don't scare easily, you know that," he went on, his voice measured. "Bill did a basic auralic, and picked up on the Crucio patterns. What the fuck is going on, and why haven't you been honest with me?" Draco's voice was the lone, piercing cry that causes the first snow to slide and cause an avalanche.  
  
"He's not real!" Ron said, his jelly-like arms protesting as he got up to a sitting position. "I figured out he would go away, sort of, if I was in pain. So I cast the Crucios on myself. I'm not crazy. You've got to believe me." Despair began plucking apart the threads holding together Ron's thin fabric of hope. "If you don't, who will?"  
  
"Bill," Hashmal replied acerbically, scowling at Ron from beneath a decade-old Cannons poster.  
  
Draco looked at him for several long minutes. "Drink the hangover potion," he said at last.  
  
Ron did, and felt immensely better physically, but in all other ways, he was unsteady, the ground beneath him like sand being inexorably reclaimed by the tide.  
  
"They want me to go to a conference in London for a few days," Draco said, studying his fingers. "I'm of two minds about it, and I hate that." He turned his gaze to Ron, who feebly opened his arms, hoping Draco would sit on the bed, join him, have any kind of physical contact, but Draco remained stoically in his seat.  
  
"I don't want to leave you. But part of me wants to get away, let you talk to Bill. Dark Magic I understand, but what you're experiencing, I don't." Draco made a soft fist, propping his folded fingers against his cheekbone. "You didn't write down anything else with that person you said you saw in the paper, did you?"  
  
"No," Ron admitted.  
  
"But it didn't stop." It was a statement; there was no question in Draco's tone.  
  
Ron closed his eyes. "Draco, I promise I'm not a nutter. Please, just let me explain. Hashmal's all wrong, I'm no prophet, no messenger, I'm just me. But he's--"  
  
"I'll be back in two days," Draco said, standing fluidly and looking down at Ron, who felt he'd just been caught in a riptide. "If you weren't with Bill I wouldn't go, but I trust him. Fuck." He gave Ron a searing look, sank down to Ron's side and kissed him savagely. "We'll figure this out, I promise. I want you back," he murmured. "You tell this Hashmal that you're mine and I'll be back to claim you. Got it?"  
  
Ron threw his arms around Draco, knowing his voice would betray his brokenness and gratitude. "He's here. He knows," he said, the words gluey on his tongue. "Don't go," he begged. "What if Hashmal's right? What if there is an attack? Just stay."  
  
"No, Ron. I'll see you soon. Be well," Draco admonished, pressing his lips to Ron's a last time before leaving the room.  
  
"So you're finally conceding that I might actually have a message worth heeding?" Hashmal bloviated as he stood up from the floor. "Once your precious lover is going to be in London? Think of how many other lives you could save!"  
  
"No! I don't really believe you." Ron curled up on his side, pulling the covers to his chin. "Because if you really wanted to save us, you'd go to the Minister yourself. Not tell me I have to do it."  
  
Hashmal looked as though he wanted to throttle him. "You were the one selected. The Unnameable has reasons for all decisions made."  
  
"Bet this Unnameable of your regrets the choice he made now!"  
  
"Not half as much as I do!"  
  
Ron thought he could see Hashmal's fury and exasperation; the room glowed red-ochre and Ron's jaw clenched as he braced himself against another magical onslaught.  
  
_No, this is part of you!_ he said to himself, his fingernails pressing painful half-moons into his palms. "He's not real, he's not real," he chanted, the three words serving as a mantra until the room settled back into its usual shade of maroon and the dull headache lingering from his hangover reasserted itself.  
  
"At any point you can take a break from babysitting me, especially since I obviously make you want to throw things," Ron said, not feeling nearly as cocky as his commentary.  
  
"I'm going to have to admit defeat and consult with the Glorious One," Hashmal said with a laboured sigh. "I wouldn't dare to second-guess why the decision was made for you to be our oracle. From yours and my too brief time together, I can tell you're too fragile to believe I am who and what I say I am. For you to be in a place to listen to my portends, you truly would force yourself to insanity. I'm not a dark one; this is too much to ask of me."  
  
Hashmal's expression had cleared like a freshly washed sky after a storm. There was nothing turbulent about him: he was despondency, a clear ringing tone of lament.  
  
"Good-bye, Ron. I don't expect I'll ever see you again, at least not in our respective forms."  
  
He stood over Ron and gestured fluidly with his hand. It seemed like a protection spell, but Ron couldn't find the energy to ask. He was suddenly unable to keep his eyes open, and with a heavy heart, he sank into sleep.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Hi, Bill!"  
  
Ron felt more animated and normal than he had in days. Except that he was actually worried that he'd not seen Hashmal. He was pleased to see that Bill was up, although from the set of his jaw and circles under his eyes, Bill had had a crap night's sleep.  
  
"Ron." Bill's dour, sombre mood was confirmed.  
  
"Want some coffee?" Ron asked, limping slightly as he walked back toward the kitchen. "And where are Mum and Dad?"  
  
"Coffee would be superb. They're with Harry and Ginny. Back next week."  
  
Ron's heart leapt in his throat as the vision of London, with its collapsed buildings and crests of fire came rushing to mind. But that couldn't possibly happen. It was all punishment, leftover mind flotsam and jetsam from the dodgy potions he'd taken. It _had_ to be. Ron forced himself to focus on Bill.  
  
"Rough night's sleep?" he asked tentatively.  
  
Bill gave him a baleful look. "Full moon is tonight. And tomorrow," he said morosely. "One of those lovely, infrequent months when there are two nights of the full moon. Wolfsbane helps, but it's still awful." He paused and latched his attentions on Ron. "Don't think you're off the hook. I want you to tell me what on Merlin's green earth was going on in your head when you thought it was a good idea to Cruico yourself in a mirror. I know you did just that, so don't try and be clever."  
  
"I was seeing things," Ron said. "Was. It's over now, I swear."  
  
The kettle boiled, and Ron spooned the dark crystals into two mugs, stirred them and brought them to the table. "I owled you, you know," he said defensively. "I'd thought you'd know somebody who could do some spell to draw him out or just get rid of him. But he's gone, I know it."  
  
Bill scratched at the auburn stubble on his cheek before taking a sip of coffee, his gaze never leaving Ron's face.  
  
"What?!" Ron felt like he was on trial at the Wizengamot, and he'd presented a pathetic case for himself. "I'm not crazy! I don't really think all this destruction is going to happen, but I wish Draco would come back, just in case."  
  
"Then you do believe," Bill said, taking another swig.  
  
"No! I'm just-- hedging my bets. Bill, honestly. Hashmal was a figment of my head. That doesn't make me have to go to St. Mungo's forever, does it?"  
  
Bill's lips twisted to one side. "Ron, I just don't know what's going on. Malfoy has to be exceedingly worried if he agreed you should stay and didn't want to take care of you by himself. You two have become rather an island."  
  
"I help out George all the time! I'm a great uncle to Xavier. I took him to the zoo with Harry not two weeks ago."  
  
The expression on Bill's face softened. "You're right. I apologise. You've never worried me like this, though. Crucioing yourself? And what happened to your ankle?"  
  
Ron fidgeted, tapping his thumb on his mug. "I sprained it out running yesterday. Poppy took care of it. I was at Hogwarts and had planned to meet with my chess students, but she sent me home. Pain made Hashmal… not disappear, but less able to do anything."  
  
Oddly enough, Ron found himself surreptitiously glancing around the kitchen, almost hoping the entity would reappear. Even if he was just a tragically flawed and bizarre manifestation of part of himself, Hashmal had seemed to really care about him.  
  
_Fuck_ , Ron thought moodily. _They'll want you to go to therapy and talk and Merlin, I just want things to go back to fucking normal! Normal, normal, normal._  
  
They sat in a strained silence. Eventually Bill gave him a weak smile.  
  
"Well, you're safe here for now. Just rest up, maybe do some reading-- mum would love it if you trimmed the hedges in the side yard. Nothing's going to happen until I'm on the other side of the full moon, so you can plan on a couple of quiet days here."  
  
Panic rose in Ron like a geyser set to explode. "You're going to keep me here? Hell no! What if Hashmal was right? I've got to make sure Draco's safe, and mum, dad, Harry… oh fuck!" he yelled, helplessness and frustration tearing at him with sharp fangs. He beat his fists against the tabletop, making the mugs totter.  
  
"Ron! Get a hold of yourself!" Bill wasn't as tall as Ron, or as muscled, but there was a feral strength to him, his lupine attributes barely contained as the moon's hold grew. "Do you really think we're at risk of being destroyed? Is this thing still talking to you?"  
  
"No, and no, I don't want to believe it!" Ron grabbed at the hair at his scalp and tugged, grinding his teeth. "No. It's crazy. I just don't want to have been wrong."  
  
Hashmal's disappointed visage, and his sorrow came flooding back to Ron. To his chagrin, he felt his eyes grow hot with held back tears. "I'll just get cleaned up and surprise Draco," he said, rubbing at his eyes. "If he's really committed to me, he'll listen."  
  
"You're not going anywhere," Bill said, his voice threatening. "I was already thinking that, and Malfoy all but chained you to that bed."  
  
"But--"  
  
"NO. I've hidden your wand. Don't even bother trying to find it or Accio it to you; I put a spell on it I picked up in Egypt. I've warded the Floo and the grounds. You are not leaving the Burrow until after I've transformed back the second time and Malfoy returns from his time in London."  
  
Ron gaped at him, the horror at being trapped causing bile to rise in his throat. "Bill," he pleaded, his voice a ragged dirge.  
  
Bill shook his head. "You don't seem suicidal, but you have to admit you're not acting at all rationally. It's for your own safety!"  
  
Ron let out an anguished bellow, shoved back from the table and stormed toward the back door, ignoring the twinge in his left ankle. He all but kicked down the door to get to the yard where he yelled curses, begged, swore some more, and eventually sank to his knees.  
  
"Get a fucking grip and start thinking like a sane person!" he said angrily to himself, trying to force his pounding heart back to a more usual speed. He put his hands in his pocket; a soft moan of gratitude crossed his lips as he realised he still had a few cigarettes and a matchbook. It took him a couple of tries, but he got one lit and sat, smoking. He evaluated his situation, mentally corralling his anxieties and anger with a modicum of success.  
  
"I can owl him," Ron said before taking a deep inhale off the cigarette. "Once Bill's in wolf form, I can owl Draco. Nothing bad is going to happen, but I'd rather have him around, and he can give me grief and I can let him know Hashmal's gone."  
  
Ron half-expected Hashmal to appear at the mention of his name, but apparently Ron no longer had the ability to conjure him. The spectre's farewell had certainly had a finality to it, but after what Ron had put up with and done to himself trying to make him go away, or back into his subconscious… Ron figured it would have been harder than that.  
  
"Well, Crucioing yourself wasn't exactly a walk in the park, was it?" he mumbled under his breath.  
  
He tried to shield his thoughts about his intentions, and managed surreptitiously enough to establish that Errol, while ancient, was still around. Bill made dinner of a sort for himself, a not quite raw steak. Ron was content to drink his dinner for the time being.  
  
"You're a glutton for punishment, aren't you?" Bill said, his eyes gleaming alarmingly. Then again, Ron had never been around him this close to his transformation.  
  
"Well, as you said, I'm not going anywhere. I'll make a sandwich later," Ron said, keeping his tone blasé.  
  
Bill took a forkful of beef and chewed on it, evaluating Ron with a wary gaze. "I hope so. I suppose there's not that much damage you can do without your wand, even if you're drunk."  
  
"I'm not going to do any damage! And I'm not getting shit-faced," Ron insisted, wishing it were night time already so Bill would be locked up and unable to talk to him. "I told you. Hashmal's gone. I'm really pissed off that you're treating me like a prisoner, but I know you're not going to change your mind."  
  
"No," Bill agreed, tucking into the bloody steak.  
  
"That's…" Ron started to say something about Bill's dinner, then thought better of it and got up from the table. "That Muggle television that Harry and Ginny bought for mum and dad-- has dad broken it yet?  
  
"No. You're in luck." A genuine smile lingered on Bill's lips. "The receiver even works and you can actually watch a few channels."  
  
"Brilliant." Ron heaved a sigh of relief. "I'll go watch something. Do you need any, you know, help? With your change, or afterwards?"  
  
Bill's smile became strained. "No, but thanks. I'm pretty used to it by now."  
  
Ron nodded and ambled off to the living room, a bottle of firewhiskey in one hand and a glass in the other. Truthfully he didn't plan to get cabbaged, and he would have made something to eat, but he didn't trust his stomach. Not until he'd sent an owl to Draco.  
  
A couple of hours later, Bill called out that he was going to the broom shed for the night and not to worry about him. "The Wolfsbane really helps. Still hurts like hell, but I won't be a menace."  
  
"Okay. I'll check up on you tomorrow."  
  
"I'd appreciate that. G'night."  
  
Ron didn't trust even to go looking for a scrap of parchment until he could see the full moon for himself, and knew Bill was in wolf form. He wrote a short entreaty.  
  


_Dear Draco--  
Hashmal's gone. I'm in my right mind, I swear. I'm not seeing things, it's all normal. I'm not writing just so you'll come back sooner, but I'd feel so much better if you'd at least spend your nights at home. Our home. Bill's got me trapped here until the full moon's over, and it's two nights in a row. I won't hurt myself, I promise. Please don't stay in London. Errol will wait for a reply. Bill took my wand, too, otherwise I'd come to you myself. _ 


  
Ron paused, looking over his messy handwriting. Hopefully Draco would be able to read it.

__

Please come to the Burrow. As soon as you can. I can prove to you that I'm not crazy. I'll do anything for you to see that I'm okay. I love you.  
  
Ron


__  
Before he could second-guess himself anymore, Ron rolled up the parchment and found some string to tie it. He went into the twins' old room and nicked one of Fred's coats. It was still hard to believe that he was dead; it was far easier to imagine him at the shop. Once buttoned up against the cold, he went out to the small owlery and was confronted by an agitated Errol.

"Who pissed in your water dish?" he asked grumpily, tying the message to the owl's leg.

Errol hooted his displeasure.

"Sorry old man, but I really need you. Take this to Draco Malfoy. He's in London, somewhere. You'll be able to find him. Thank you," he said, trying to stroke the owl's head, but Errol would have none of it. "I'm desperate, otherwise I wouldn't bother you, honest."

Errol slowly and unsteadily walked to the edge of his perch and then flew away, rising and falling at the effort it took him to stay aloft.

"Merlin, just make it there and back," Ron said, sending as much positive thought toward the owl's flight as possible.

He paced around the kitchen, went outside and smoked, then paced some more. Ron looked in vain for a magazine he might find even mildly interesting, but all he found were some older copies of "Home and Hearth" and a distinctive Muggle yellow-bordered magazine called "National Geographic," no doubt part of his dad's collection. Out of sheer desperation, Ron went to Charlie's room and rummaged through the mostly empty drawers of his desk, muttering a bleak, "Thank Merlin!" when he found a deck of cards. He played solitaire and drank until he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. Stumbling over his too-large feet, he fell onto the couch and pulled a throw over himself and slept, fitfully.

The next day he checked up on Bill-- looking through the window of the shed, he saw his brother in human form, curled up on a cot and hidden by a large blanket. Ron suspected he'd sleep most of the day, only a temporary reprieve from his lupine form. The sky had a sickly rose hue; it seemed to bear down on him as Ron plodded through the unkempt lawns and fallow garden patches. Lost in thought about Draco and Errol, he wandered too far and ran into an invisible wall, the ward Bill had placed on the perimeter of the yard.

"Damn it!" Ron yelled. He turned around to scowl at the Burrow off in the distance, its ramshackle, gravity-defying structure mocking him as he took it in.

The minutes and hours dragged by. He drank tea, he played more solitaire, he thought of the four hundred and sixty-seven things he was going to do once this exile was over and the world stopped being such a mess. Cheered by that thought, Ron was startled when a large, officious owl flew to the window and pecked at it. Ron nearly topped his chair in shock as he staggered away from the table to let the owl in. It had a piece of creamy parchment attached to its leg that Ron untied with steady hands. As soon as he had the parchment, the owl hooted and flew away.

__

Ron--  
I will come home, but not before these meetings are over. The Muggles do seem to be more agitated and are reporting a lot of deaths due to a rare virus, but that happens every few years. You sound more like yourself, and I'm pleased. That said, I can't just pretend to ignore that in the past week or so you've been seeing things and casting powerful curses on yourself. I want to believe you're better, I do. Oh, and I'm so sorry. Errol died. Hence a Gringott's owl. Since Errol was your family's, I assumed you would want to bury him there. I'm having him sent via a personal courier.  
  
I only want you to be well, and not tormented by whatever it was or is. You have my support.  
  
Yours, Draco


__  
Ron stared at the note. At least Draco hadn't said, "You're batty, leave me the fuck alone until I get back," but it wasn't as deeply loyal as Ron had hoped for, deep in his heart. And Errol was dead. That wasn't as shocking as it could be, seeing as how he really was ancient. It was very thoughtful for Draco to arrange to send his body back; it showed a sentimental side to him that Ron hadn't expected.

He put on Fred's coat again and went outside, lighting a cigarette under the evening sky. The moon had risen and loomed above the horizon, looking far larger than it could truly be. All at once, Ron felt an equilibrium he'd had go sliding off into an abyss. The ground trembled and he heard the wolf in the broom shed howling, causing barbs of gooseflesh on his arms. Bill -- the wolf -- let out more eerie cries, obviously feeling the overwhelming crescendos of 'not right' that assaulted them. There was a sickening, cracking sound and Ron crouched, huddled near the back door. Somehow Bill's wards had broken. Ron felt naked and exposed, a fish flopping on the deck of a sea-tossed boat.

"No, no, no, no," he said, his eyes burning with furious years. "No, fuck you, Hashmal, no, NO!" he roared as he realised, without a doubt, that the obliteration Hashmal had warned him about had devastated those three cities. He couldn't breathe. It was true. But that was impossible…

He ran inside the house to the fireplace and had a handful of Floo powder ready to throw when he thought, _What if I get stuck somewhere? Our magic might be tainted._

"Bloody fucking hell! _Accio_ wand!"

It came soaring to him; Ron didn't care where it had been or even so much that Bill's spell work on it had failed. He had it now, and the barricades Bill had set up were gone. Reeling in shock, he stumbled to the television and turned it on. Nothing but grey ash flickered at him on the screen. His teeth chattered. Ron was scared shitless. Fear rendered him immobile, even though he wanted to get on his broom and fly, go see what the fuck was going on, to scream at Hashmal that he didn't know how he was going to live at all, and where the hell was Hashmal and his declarations of doom, anyway?!

"Draco."

Ron's voice was a dirge. He couldn't believe… No. Something may have happened, but it absolutely wasn't what Hashmal had described. That thought was too horrifying to contemplate. Tears stung Ron's face as he bolted outside. The wolf continued to howl balefully in the locked shed, but Ron wasn't about to let him out. Desperation made him crazed, his thoughts careening like a flock of startled birds. Should he take his broom to London? He couldn't owl Draco or even his parents. He shouted a wordless blast of terror and frustration.

A distinctive crack of Apparition startled him and he stumbled on his weak ankle, violently whipping his head to see who it was. Draco, his robes covered in muck and blood, his face grimy with ash, staggered a couple of steps and then collapsed onto his knees. Whimpering sounds tumbled from his lips, prodding Ron into action. He rushed to get to Draco's side, crashing to the ground before he pulled Draco's shaking body to him. Ron clung to Draco like a barnacle to a ship, running his hands down Draco's back and murmuring nonsense like 'It's going to be okay,' and 'You're safe now.'

Eventually, in a rough voice, Draco said, "I felt I had to go. Something made me excuse myself from the conference and go down the road. The building was rubble not a few minutes after I left." He quaked in Ron's arms and Ron tried to make consoling noises. "How could you have known, unless… but…" Draco's tremulous voice cracked and he yanked himself away from Ron, gazing wide-eyes at him. "Was he real?" he yelled hoarsely.

Ron felt an iciness, then heat wash through him. He thought for a minute that he'd vomit, but then his stomach settled slightly. "I don't know!" he cried out bitterly. "You were there. London was really attacked?"

Draco's eyes were saucers. "Yes. It was a living nightmare. Carnage, madness. I almost didn't make it-- my wand got knocked out of my hand. People were running everywhere, deafening explosions in all directions." He closed his eyes, surely trying to make the images go away. "I shouldn't have let myself believe you were losing your mind. How could I have been so faithless? Fuck, Ron, I should have believed you! I should have--"

His face contorted into a mask of anguish. Ron had never felt so helpless. The truth was, he couldn't prove anything and the world as he knew it was ending and his snarky, unflappable lover was falling apart right in front of him. Draco covered his face with his filthy hands, his wand falling to the ground. Ron picked it up and pocketed it next to his, trying to tune out Bill's relentless howling and not to shatter apart himself.

"Draco, come here, please," he begged, squatting and putting his hands on Draco's shoulders. "Let's go inside. I want to make sure you're okay, get you cleaned up. I…" Ron swallowed, his throat tight with the emotions he was struggling to suppress. "I'm the one who should have listened. I thought I was going insane. But if I had been, you'd have had to put me away at St. Mungo's-- oh Merlin. Does it even exist now?"

With a bleak expression on his face, Draco shrugged. "There are wards on it, I'd assume."

"Good." Ron sighed with relief before he was reminded of the sound he'd heard, the cracking apart of the wards Bill had set. It was too much. He simply couldn't fathom what had happened, he couldn't absorb it. "I can't go mad now," he murmured, looking for reassurance in Draco's eyes and seeing only hopelessness.

"No, you can't," Draco whispered, cautiously raising his hand to place it on Ron's shoulder. "The world's already done so. You were given a warning," he said, shaking his head and lowering his eyes.

"I can't know that," Ron ground out. "Hashmal, if he did exist outside of my fucking head, he's gone. Maybe I am barking. But even if I am, I'm still here, you're still here. I'll start firecalling to see who's--" he paused, still unable to say the words that made it all real.

"Alive." Draco made a brittle bark of a laugh. "The news will have reached the European Wizarding communities; they'll help us. If they can. There's nothing you could have done. If you'd told the Minister, he would have listened, perhaps, and then sent you away."

Ron nodded, feeling increasingly numb. His best friends, his family… he shook his head, utterly defeated. Draco was right, the Minister would have assumed he was a raving lunatic. Maybe he was a raving lunatic. Merlin only knew what depth to a holocaust the next several hours would bring. He wasn't in a hurry to find them all out, but they'd come to him, soon enough.

"You're real, right?" he asked, leaning forward so their foreheads touched. "Not another phantasm I may or may not have created in my crazy mind?"

"Very real. Very terrified. Very much in need of a drink and a bath, in that order."

Ron nodded. His whole body ached and part of himself seemed to have shut down, unable to cope with the surreality of what was happening.

"I can't offer much, but I think I can help you on those fronts," he said weakly.

"Good. Then we can deal with whatever fresh hells this new tomorrow will bring," Draco said grimly, sounding much more like himself.

They helped each other up from the ground, and then Draco enfolded Ron in a fierce embrace. Ron chanced a look up to the Burrow, and standing on the apex of the roof, Hashmal looked down on him. He put his hand to his heart and then swept it down toward them. Shell-shocked and not at all certain what constituted reality, Ron simply gazed at him. All at once Ron thought to what Draco had said, about feeling that he'd had to leave his building. He hadn't said he'd thought Ron was right after all, but rather that he'd been compelled to go. Ron nuzzled Draco's hair, which smelled of smoke, and looked back up at the roof to mouth his thanks. Hashmal was gone.

"Let's get you that drink," he rasped.  



End file.
